


Deadweight Losses

by goodnightfern



Series: The Mothership Connection [4]
Category: Metal Gear
Genre: All My Children - Freeform, Babies, Birthday Parties Gone Wild, Erectile Dysfunction, Guest Starring: VKaz, Hypocrisy At Critical Levels, Incel Donald Anderson, M/M, Murder, Nanomachines, Obligatory BBKaz and Bosselot, Obnoxious Retcons, OceKazNadine why not, Pseudomicrobiology, Rape Mentions, Rolex Milsub, Some Real Absolute Patriots Bullshit, Taking The MSX Games at Face Value, The Hamburgers of Kazuhira Miller, Torture, Y2K Conspiracy Theory
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-12
Updated: 2018-10-06
Packaged: 2019-02-25 23:31:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 66,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13223535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goodnightfern/pseuds/goodnightfern
Summary: Ocelot learns to make the most of his investment. Kaz learns the cost of doing business.





	1. 1981 / PROLOGUE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Bangkok 80's tourist culture, references to pedophilia, gender issues, a transphobic slur?

“Miller, we’re in _Bangkok_ ,” Ocelot says, like Kaz could mistake this hellbroth of stalled tuk-tuks and motorcycles for any other tropical capital at rush hour.

“Exactly. You don’t have the youthful innocence to pull off the hooker look here. Unless you’ve got a pair of fake tits I don’t know about.”

“Better an old whore than a divorced stockbroker looking for the fresher ones.” Ocelot unties and reties his red scarf that clashes nauseatingly with his leopard - _ocelot_ print suit. “Besides, I recall an outfit you wore in Dubai that -”

“I know this might be a vacation to you,” Kaz interrupts before any mention of gold lamé, “but I’m actually here to work.”

“We’ve got two days in the city. And like you said, we’re rich men now. We can allow ourselves an indulgence or two.” Ocelot trails a gloved pinky up Miller’s thigh.

Kaz knows all about indulgences. He just spilled half a gram of good blow on his khakis because nobody knows how to drive in this country. Between him and Ocelot licking their fingers it didn’t all go to waste, but there’s still a whitish smear on his trousers.

What Ocelot calls an indulgence involves Kaz struggling into the matching white-tiger print suit in the back of the cab so later they can go out to some seedy jizz-stained club to see the ping-pong trick. Drinking enough and snorting enough to let Ocelot grind all over him until they end up fucking in a puddle of malaria and piss in some godforsaken alley in the City of Angels.

There might be some historical precedence to that whole concept, but that was before the Seychelles job. Diamond Dogs has a home now, and the three tons of pure Burmese skag Mr. Chiaprisit’s son is hoping to slip past them along with his father’s innocent artillery shells is going to get the power up and running. Maybe hire a few engineers and divers. It’s a little essential that they don’t roll up to the meeting looking like Colombian kingpins - or rather, their whores.

“Our client is a perfectly respectable double-crossing arms dealer,” Kaz tells him. “Hates drugs, local minorities, and small dogs in that order. Back in Hong Kong even I wasn’t clean enough to suck his dick, and don’t get me started on the hookers. No, no, he deals with presidents and politicians and shit. The only square in all of Bangkok.”

“Not used to getting turned down, huh?”

“Like you could - listen. It’s the prodigal son who thinks we’re his personal drug mules to get his stolen shit to Ho Chi Minh. If the kid suspects we know he’s pulling one over us, the whole job’s a wash. These small-time gangbangers are always paranoid.”

“If he’s that paranoid, he won’t risk the overland route. He’s got no choice but to use us.”

True. The smack had a hard enough time making it out of the Shan United’s hands across the border into Thailand, why would he want to bother with Cambodia? The route Kaz offers is a clean shot to Ho Chi Minh - and from there, to Manila, to Hawaii, before hitting the biggest opiate market in the world.

Bad news for junior: Kaz’s man in Singapore has zero ties to the CIA and the Sydney market’s on the up and coming. There will be an unfortunate run-in with a patrol halfway through the gulf, but all Chaiprasit senior will know is that the goods were delivered in full and his howitzers will tear Pol Pot a new one.

“And we already know there’s no risk he’ll confess to his father,” Ocelot continues. “Unless they’re already in on it together. In which case the job is already a wash.”

“The kid can lose three tons of smack, or his entire inheritance. What would you do?”

Ocelot gives Kaz a look that just screams _I would kill everyone and become the shadow king of the entire golden crescent because I’m Revolver goddamn Ocelot and I do whatever I want_ even as he says, “Miller, I don’t think my outfit is what’s going to destroy this deal.”

So he’s going to condescend like that even after Kaz went out scrounging up a watered-down version of their extra cargo for when Ocelot got the shakes last night. Like all junkies, Ocelot is in complete denial about his worsening condition even as his hair turns grey. Sure, he’ll stick to the uppers in front of Kaz - when he’s in his right mind. These days it seems Kaz sees less and less of the man he met in 1975.

Kaz has dug a bit. Heard stories of his CO back in Grozny Gradj. Wondered about the implications of “child spy training.” Doesn’t know if it was a drug coma or if his mind was truly on the fritz when he ordered the suits.

“If anything,” Ocelot continues, “my being dressed like an old whore only solidifies your credibility. With me you could never be mistaken for a pedophile.”

“It’s trashy.”

“I’m surprised you can’t recognize custom Armani.” The bastard’s got the high and haughty look perfected. That door stopper of a nose only makes it worse.

“Custom Armani. Of course. And how much did you spend on this?”

“Relax, I didn’t take it from the food budget.”

“You’re returning these things ASAP.”

“Right. I’ll just pull out the receipts and trot on down to the Armani store. I think I saw one next to the congee stand.”

Christ. Kaz tilts up his glasses to rub his eyes. The cab rolls over another pothole before slowing to a stop and the springs dig into his ass. He glances at his watch while he counts some baht for the driver. Ten minutes early, but that’s not enough time to find new clothes, and he’s pretty sure there isn’t a Macy’s in Bangkok. “Fine. If you want to go out there looking like a gaudy Halloween rentboy, be my guest. You're not dragging me into this.”

“You’re one to talk about being gaudy,” Ocelot says with a pointed look at the Rolex.

“This isn’t even close to the same thing and you know it,” Kaz snaps, holding up his left wrist. The Rolex is real gold, twenty-four karat. Classy and functional and still ticking after crossing more time zones than Kaz even knows. “A watch isn’t just a statement, it’s the working man’s best friend. A watch is the only security -”

“That watch has got to be worth at least as much as one of these suits.”

“Hah. Try six times over.”

“Hm. That’d buy a lot of helicopters.”

Kaz counts ten golden gleaming seconds even as the cab driver robs him blind. Worst cab ride of his life - yes, including the one he spent bleeding his guts out. Ocelot put too much pressure on the wound and still didn’t have the decency to shut up.

“Just button your shirt and take off that scarf and maybe, maybe you can pull that off,” he mutters, shaking the creases out of his perfectly fine polyester and khaki. He’s careful not to splash too hard in the puddle between the cab and the sidewalk. Ocelot skips over it entirely with one stretch of his stupidly long legs.

Of course he isn’t wearing a shirt to button up in the first place. It’s a long elevator ride to the top floor, and Ocelot acts like he isn’t checking himself out in the mirror even while he ties and reties his scarf.

Mr. Chaiprasit, at least, doesn't blink at the suit. No, when his son hands him the cigar box over his shoulder he offers one only to Kaz and shoots Ocelot a single curious glance before dismissing him entirely. Ocelot's no kathoey, but it is Bangkok.

Ocelot doesn’t even ask for a drag. Just simpers and crosses his legs. He’s doing the same shit Kaz used to do back in the day with Snake, playing the decorative arm piece while his mind worked six steps ahead of the client. Except Kaz was cute and young and had the ass to pull it off.

At least Chaiprasit just wants to talk business.

The seiner Kaz is hiring for this job has a 400 ton capacity - about 24,000 howitzer shells, give or take. The lobster boat Ocelot will be meeting them on can’t carry more than six tons, but that’s more than enough for the heroin. Ideally the few Diamond Dogs they were able to spare for this trip would be at work already, but junior's goon buddies are busy "inspecting" the cargo.

It is true that there’s no rush here. Once they get back it’s going to be full speed ahead. Kaz doesn’t even want to think about the logistics of moving everyone to Kenya to Mombasa where the whaling ship is docked and waiting. But there’s no point moving men to a base without power or running water, so Kaz might as well chase the white rabbit all the way off in Southeast Asia.

Besides, Ocelot won’t let Kaz run these kind of deals in Afghanistan, and the scorched-earth policy hasn’t been kind to the poppy fields out west. If this all works out, Kaz has half a mind to teach Commander Khun Sa of the Shan United a lesson or two about trafficking. He's already considering buying the purse seine outright. Maybe a whole fleet.

The cigar is Cuban. The handshake is firm. The papers are signed and the son offers Kaz one last cigar while Ocelot trails fingers across the small of Kaz’s back.

It’s like listening to Kaz talk business makes him horny or something. On the elevator down Ocelot starts mouthing his neck, so Kaz might as well give him a reason to wear that scarf, and by the time the ground floor dings Kaz realizes he’s going to have to change his pants.

“I’ve got a fresh change of clothes right here,” Ocelot says, holding up his briefcase, and Kaz groans.

Fine, fine. Kaz can change into the tiger-stripe pants in the lobby bathroom, but like hell if he’s putting on the entire suit. It’s not so bad with his black jacket, but Ocelot takes off his tie to undo half the buttons on his plain white shirt.

“You need a chain,” Ocelot says. “Gold, to match your watch.” He grabs Kaz’s wrist again, looking at the watch like he can actually appreciate it.

‘You need a damn shirt,” Kaz gripes, but Ocelot just smiles and pulls that hand to his bare chest. Yes, very nice, Ocelot works out, but it’s 1300 in Kenya and the latest iDroid model doesn't have the range Kaz hoped for.

On the other hand, their own hotel is another hellish two-hour cab ride away. Kaz would be seriously impressed if the manager had managed to get the phones up and running in a day. Diamond Dogs can survive.

One night in Bangkok, right?

The evening is sultry and steaming as those old nights in Colombia, and the city lights up like Dubai did once the sun sets. The cigarette trick is cooler than the ping-pong one and the fake tits are even better when he’s licking snake liquor off them. Ocelot tugs him away from those perfect fake tits to yet another sticky dance floor too soon, but Kaz wasn’t looking for syphilis anyways. He didn't dance in Dubai and he sure as hell won't here, but there’s a pill on Ocelot’s tongue when he shoves it between Kaz’s lips and things get a little loose and glimmering from there on out.

The highlight of the night is getting that leopard print soaked and stained. Adding a few more white stripes to the tiger print. Kaz spills liquor on purpose just to suck it off Ocelot's sleeve and worry that fine weave with his teeth. It won't teach Ocelot a lesson, but it's worth a shot.

0400 finds Kaz still piss-drunk, scooping up panang as thick as the climate beneath a flickering white bulb and a corrugated tin roof. Ocelot is taking shots of a lifted bottle of that snake liquor, watching him eat and swatting mosquitoes. Their hotel is somewhere, a few Diamond Dogs are still awake. Steel Agama, Armadillo, some of the other older ones who know when to turn that watchful eye away.

“Your watch,” Ocelot says suddenly.

Kaz pauses mid-bite. His left wrist is naked.

“Motherfucking backstabbing ladyboy _cocks,_ -” Kaz coughs, splattering panang all over them both, but there’s that familiar swing inside his breast pocket.

Safe and sound. He must have taken the Rolex off sometime after the fifth shot. Kaz clasps it back around his wrist, tilting it to see the light of the naked bulb swing over the face. He almost falls off his chair again when Ocelot grabs his hand to get a closer look at the watch himself.

“I’ve never seen you look at anything the way you look at this.”

“It’s a watch. 'M supposed to look at it.”

“Now where would a Japanese cop get a hold of a Rolex Submariner? Gold, too. That's not standard issue. Did Snake give it to you?”

“No.”

“Where, then?”

“Stole it off a Colombian drug lord.”

"Was that before or after you fucked him?" Ocelot smiles. It isn't quite a smirk.

"He was already dead."

“That's a lie.”

"Honest truth. Cross my heart and hope to die."

"I'll get it out of you someday," Ocelot promises, and presses a greasy kiss to the face that takes forever to rub clean.

 

 

The next day is spent hungover and on the phone in the rotting stew of their hotel room. Kaz doesn’t even look up when Ocelot leaves, not until he returns three hours later with that familiar scent and stride that lets Kaz know immediately something is wrong. The withdrawal, yes, but there’s more to it this time.

“XOF?” Kaz asks him quietly.

“Handled.” His voice is quicker, the accent faded. To any other ear it would be impossible to tell, but Kaz knows a thing or two about a slipping accent. Yeah, Kaz has seen this version of Ocelot before.

“That woman again?”

“One of her friends.”

“Thought we left them in Sahar International. What happened?” 

"You're the one who can barely keep your passports straight."

"Look, it doesn't matter. They're here now." Kaz chews his lip. This isn't the time for a bickering match. Especially with this Ocelot. “All right, all right. Change of plans. We lift anchor tonight.”

“And let them know we’re onto them? Don’t be careless.”

“If you just killed their agent, I’d say it’s obvious enough. What’s the point of letting them get a step closer? We’ll just jump schedule twenty-four hours. No big deal.”

“Or you could shut up and trust me. We’re sticking to the plan.”

“You’re the one who always talks about infinite adaptability. Don't ocelots always land on their feet?”

"They do." Ocelot inhales sharp but lets it out slowly. Strides up to the desk and grabs Kaz by the back of his head, yanking his hair to force him to look into that bright and peculiar gaze.

Kaz swallows. He knows that look. And he also knows there’s no use protesting this unless he wants to work with two dislocated wrists. Instead he reaches one hand behind to slide up Ocelot's thigh.

"Hey," he says. Low and quiet. Just like that. Kaz goes from a stranger to a cool drink of water, and there really isn't the time for this, but what the hell.

Ocelot doesn't hesitate. When he kicks the chair out Kaz takes the fall. When Ocelot flips him over and pins his wrists above his head right there on the floor, Kaz goes limp.

He doesn’t let Ocelot see his grin, smashed against the stained carpet, because the truth is? Ocelot's a _savage_ when he’s like this. No charm agent games, no teasing, no posturing, no weird crap. This Ocelot eats ass without a shower, drills like a jackhammer, and rides cock until he’s shaking and drooling. Yeah, there’s no way Kaz would stop him when he gets like this.

It’s almost like how Snake used to fuck. Almost. Tip the scales the other way, and Ocelot goes strangely docile. Kaz could try that now. Risk the bones in his fingers to run a hand through Ocelot’s hair and drag it down his cheek. Pull Ocelot to his chest and ask him how the other spy died. But Ocelot’s been having fun in Bangkok, and they can only keep this going for so long until Snake wakes up. May as well make the most of it.

So Ocelot wants to be on top this time? By all means. When Kaz tells him to go ahead and use his teeth he lunges forward like he was waiting for permission and _holy shit_ is it incredible to come like this, his own cock untouched as Ocelot hisses and bites his throat right - fucking - there.

Ocelot seems dazed when he pulls out. Lets Kaz kiss him sloppy and open mouthed before putting a careful hand in his hair.

“Hey. Look at me.” Kaz waits for the slow blink that means he’s almost back. “Do you need anything?”

“No.”

“The cargo was already loaded today. I want you ready to leave by nineteen hundred.” That gives them four hours. “Can you do that?”

“Yes.”

“All right. Shoot up, take a nap, do what you gotta do. I’m putting Panther on your boat.”

“The medic?”

“No Frog, sorry. But you’ll be fine with him.”

It takes a few minutes for Ocelot to blink and pull himself up off the ground, giving Kaz time to make himself look busy again. Kaz says something rude on autopilot and kicks a foot Ocelot swats away.

Leaving a day and a half ahead of schedule throws the entire trip into chaos, but Diamond Dogs are indeed infinitely adaptable. There’s enough leeway in the budget to convince the crews they’ve hired to get it done now, of course Kaz had a protocol in case something exactly like this happened.

The one thing Kaz forgot was to double-check the weather. Still, it can’t get too bad in a protected gulf. Kaz used to command an offshore base, he knows a little something about the ocean.

Or so he thought.

They’re two hours past the RV point with Ocelot when the clouds and drizzle turn into an honest-to-god monsoon not even the NAVTEK predicted. The captain is shouting some nonsense but Kaz can’t hear a word of it over the heavy smacks of water against the glass.

Armadillo and Agama are raising their hands, the sailors are shouting, and Kaz is _pissed._ He had the fuel budgeted down to the last penny on this. They can’t afford to let a little bad weather delay them, and he’ll stay in the bridge if he goddamn wants to. If the seiner is tossing like this, Ocelot’s dinky little lobster boat must already be at the bottom of the gulf by now. Either that or he's partying too hard with the cargo, but Kaz doubts it. If Ocelot was that irresponsible a junkie, Kaz would have quit working with him long ago.

"So either you flip this thing around, or you can say goodbye to your paycheck,” Kaz snarls. He was hoping he could take on the crew for good. The offshore base comes with some handy fishing rights.

The captain babbles about fuel even as his hand dips to the antique revolver at his side. Like they don't have emergency stores. Like Kaz himself couldn't call in a chopper.

Mutiny on the high seas it is then. Or, to put it professionally, _investment protection._

Armadillo and Agama just sigh and pull out their respective sidearms when Kaz puts his M1911 to the captain's forehead, and so it is that Diamond Dogs makes a new acquisition. Not his usual tactics, but not the first time he's ended up completing a business transaction with an armed takeover.

Kaz lets Agama and the captain handle all the navigational crap while he grabs the radio. He isn’t sure of all the salty sea dog codes but as long as he’s speaking English - or Spanish - Ocelot will be able to understand him.

“Ocelot, come in.” Shit, he forgot whatever fake codename they were going to use for this trip. Doesn’t matter.

Nothing but static.

“Ocelot, do you read me?”

Fuck. Another frequency. Caracal, Ibex, Panther - no one's responding.

“Boss…” Agama starts.

“Excuse me? Are we turned around yet? No? Then shut up.” The radar’s on the fritz or something. How do people find each other on the water? Something about triangles and crap? They’re in a protected gulf, there’s no way the waves should be this high. They shouldn’t have done the pickup at night. Shouldn’t have left ahead of schedule. Should never have taken this stupid job in the first place.

The storm is calming, but it’s still raining. Nothing on the radio. Kaz’s pistol is slippery in his grip, he’s sweating too bad -

A single flare streaks up in the night.

Come on. One more.

Please?

Yes, there it is. Full speed ahead. Why the fuck did Kaz even hire these sailors if they can’t pull off a basic rescue at sea?

Kaz lets Agama and Armadillo handle the bridge to make a stumbling break for the deck. Lands flat on his face when the boat sways. Manages to scrabble and trip to a searchlight and swivels it across the churning waters. Can’t they move any faster?

There it is. A helplessly bobbing lifeboat with a few sodden lumps inside.

The rope burns his hands when Kaz throws the life preserver. It doesn’t reach. Rain stings his eyes. He throws it again, shouting himself hoarse, but it’s Panther who grabs the preserver. Kaz makes out Ibex, Caracal - and there’s Ocelot. Looking like a drowned cat, haha. They made it.

Kaz isn’t sure how to haul them up without splitting their skulls on the hull, but the more seaworthy Diamond Dogs are here to take the rope. Ocelot is last to come up the ladder - how is he still moving? Kaz grabs his wrists and pulls him up the last few rungs and then Ocelot’s choking and spitting up seawater right in Kaz’s eyes.

“Glasses.” Ocelot mumbles, throat half-clogged.

“Left inner pocket. Waterproof case.”

Ocelot’s lips twitch. "Guess our lady friend knew about the second boat. And you need to work on getting a navy together. I'll -" he coughs, wincing, "I'll send some -"

"Yeah, you do that. Some of those Red Fleet boys in the cute sailor outfits, huh? We'll get you a whole harem."

Ocelot laugh turns into a puke before he collapses hard enough to break another rib.

Everyone’s moving away now. The sailors seem to have given up already. Maybe Kaz will end up recruiting them. Right now he’s got to carry Ocelot to the captain’s berth - Ocelot’s heavier than he looks, but it isn’t the first time Kaz has had to drag him.

Ocelot’s Russian and the gulf is warm, he shouldn’t be shivering like this. He doesn’t protest when Kaz strips off his clothes and tucks him in the bolted-down bed. No wonder, his torso is black and blue, the lump on his head is growing, and just looking at him makes Kaz’s bones ache. He must have done something to his own back when he slipped in the rain.

Panther says he’s got a concussion. How bad, they’ll have to get to an actual hospital to find out. Best to let him rest. Ocelot doesn’t say anything when Kaz unsticks his own soaking clothes and crawls in bed next to him.

“You just cost me a hell of a lot of money,” Kaz says, but Ocelot doesn’t even hear it.

Later, at a hospital in Ho Chi Minh, Kaz tells him they’re even.

"Like you're even gonna remember this."

Ocelot blinks up at him, pupils dilated. Of course he was awake. The CAT scan said his brain isn't bleeding, for whatever that's worth, but there’s still the broken ribs. The nurses don’t understand how he’s so resistant to morphine.

“What? I got to save your ass for once. Besides, you lost your precious suits along with the smack.”

“I’d say three tons of heroin is worth more than two suits,” Ocelot says faintly. Before Kaz can congratulate him on his economic knowledge he manages a smirk and says, “Though, if you want to put a price on heroic rescues, adding up every time I’ve pulled your ass out of the fire -”

“Told you we were even. Now shut up and get some sleep already.”

And Ocelot, to Kaz’s surprise, actually does.

It gives Kaz time to have one of the worst phone calls of his life to let the man from Sydney know what happened to the product. After that, a slightly better call to Mombasa and another to the Seychelles. Just a slight delay. Not a big deal. They can take that last job running supplies to the aid workers Sierra Leone. Ship those FN-FALs to the Hamid, why not. They’ll need the money.

Is this what Ocelot does when he visits Snake, in whatever secret spy hospital he’s cooped up in? Running out of coins for the payphone and having to dip out to make change. Sitting around on dinky pleather chairs listening to the nurses talk about brain damage. Stealing pudding off the meal tray and holding a fork to his lips. 

No, Snake’s still in a coma. Must be getting fed entirely through tubes.

After seven fucking years you’d think the man would be completely dead by now.

He can’t believe Ocelot does this shit to himself. Watching Snake sit there covered in tubes. He’d tell Ocelot this, but Snake isn’t something they talk about much anymore.

Like the dick was that good. Oh, Kaz knows. He fell into the swamp-ass himself. But that younger man died at the bottom of the Caribbean, and Kaz has spent enough time looking for answers in bottles and comfort in bathroom stalls.

Turned out that time was better spent working out the numbers. Two years with the legendary soldier versus six with the legendary spy. He’d had to drag Snake by the balls out of that leaky shack in the jungle but when he gets right down to it, this is the first time Ocelot’s put him in the red.

Kaz isn’t supposed to know this, but a good part of the down payment on the oil rig came from Ocelot’s secret spy bank account in the clouds. Yeah, he’s dug a bit. Ended up with nothing but a big fat zero.

That fucking zero is what's keeping whatever's left of Snake alive. That _fucking_ zero got Kaz out of a slum in Managua. Out of the Derg's hands in Ethiopia - no, that one was all Major Ocelot.

Back in the day the hard rule was never ask Kaz where the money comes from. Stands true to this day, as well never asking Ocelot where the the intel comes from. But obscene Armani orders aside, this detour shouldn’t hold him back too much.

Ocelot checks himself out of the hospital as soon as Kaz finally passes out on the plastic chair by his bed. Goes right back to his day job. It could be anywhere from six weeks to six months before Kaz sees him again.

Kaz is in Mombasa within a fortnight. The whaling ship is big enough to weather any storm, and the crew is trustworthy. A few side jobs go through without Kaz having to lift more than a finger and when the oil rig finally starts humming and the lights turn on, Kaz wonders, for a moment, if Snake will ever wake up.

 


	2. 1984

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Rape, torture, dismemberment, and everyone being a little too cavalier about the whole thing. That link goes straight to my Da Ghwandai Kar fic which is, of course, Context, but also my gangrape supply drop fill

V came to, all right. About two weeks later, so does Kaz.

“Guess the best nurses make the worst patients.” Kaz squints in the searing glare, but Ocelot is already placing his glasses over his eyes while Jade Tree Frog tosses the bandages. "What are you doing here?"

“My nurses have never had anything to complain about.” Ocelot adjusts the frames three times before deciding it looks right.

Kaz doesn’t mention anything about Ocelot leaving a hospital room with three broken ribs. Instead he blinks through his shades, wondering at how his eyes have stopped burning. He’s been on morphine for the past two days, but he was expecting more of a sear than this comfortable festering sort of pain. Lately Kaz has been discovering that the handy seven-point scale on the chart in his hospital room is a rough black-and-white study of the Sistine ceiling that is the true spectrum of pain.

“Where the hell did you get these glasses?”

"They're yours."

"Take them off. Let me see."

Same two scratches on the left arm. Tiny teethmarks where a cat once chewed on them. The only difference is the tint and the fact that while he's always been photosensitive, he's never going to take them off again. Ocelot puts them back on and he sighs in relief. Maybe he'd call this a three on the pain scale. Half a frowny face, as opposed to the smiley face clawing its own face off somewhere past 100.

“Intel found the frame, but the lenses were shattered. Your new lenses are polarized, scratch-resistant, and blue-light reducing. Supposed to prevent eye strain from staring at your iDroid all day.”

“Sounds a bit Gucci to me.”

“Hey, that’s frame’s worth - four thousand francs, right? Seems it ought to have lenses that match.”

“Try eighteen hundred.” Not even a _fraction_ of the Rolex. The scrapes it left in his throat ache when he speaks. At least he won’t be swallowing for a long time. There’s still two tubes coming out from under the blanket and his - yeah, his everything hurts, his skin and bones are an empty tent in a sandstorm and the swirling sand scraped off his eyeballs and went directly into his brain.

Ocelot, perched on the side of the bed, watches him grimace through the process of discovering that moving his arm will only stab his inner elbow with the IV. He’s holding a file folder that Kaz already knows is the bimonthly budget report Kaz forgot to complete while he was busy getting his limbs sawn off. That steel from ARBED must have arrived by now, too, and the monthly order of toiletries is probably a scattered pallet in the mess kitchen by now. Kaz is going to be swamped.

“Don’t worry, we haven’t gone in the red without you,” Ocelot says, sensing his quiet panic.

“Like you would know.” Kaz stabs his elbow again trying to reach for the report.

“Maybe you ought to hold off for a while,” Ocelot says, but lets him take it anyways.

“Might as well do something while I’m stuck in this bed. Get me a pen, too. I need to practice my left-handed signature.”

“Once your new arm comes in -”

“New arm?”

Ocelot's acting puzzled. “You don’t honestly plan on going without, do you?”

“I don’t need a new arm.” Like Kaz doesn’t know exactly where his old arm is. They can send a recovery team to fetch it and stick it back on with the power of modern medicine. Hell, they can go back for his leg, too. Commander Miller’s just been dropping pieces of himself all over the place. He'll have to ask Frog if it's possible.

“Miller, I can get you -”

“Tell me what exactly you think you can get me, _Major_.”

Ocelot doesn't even blink when he flicks his gaze down to finally make genuine eye contact. Hello, Major Ocelot. GRU spetsnaz, master of interrogation, invading Afghanistan for the past five years and he can't even fudge a prisoner transfer? Kaz's bleeding ass.

“I thought you were dead,” Kaz hisses. “I know, I know, you were attacked at the hospital. Snake had to recover. That doesn’t explain the _ten goddamn days_ I was in the hole.”

Ocelot nods, slowly. Folds his lips together beneath his awful mustache and says, “Guess I spent too long on leave this time, huh.”

“You think?” For a moment Kaz is proud of himself for managing to muster up that snarl. In the next moment he’s crawling back into that dark hole again because Ocelot’s face is pale but for the dark circles under his eyes. If Kaz thought he looked terrible before, he's aged yet another twenty years overnight.

That’s right, Kaz was the one whining about how much time he spent away from Diamond Dogs. Even while he knew there had to be a careful level of disconnect for Major Ocelot to invade Afghanistan while Tactical Instructor Ocelot trained mujaheddin. Kaz swallows even though his throat is raw, and now Ocelot’s changing again. Dropping his hand and stepping back because Snake’s here now.

Snake who put his glasses on first. Snake who touched him so gently in the chopper. Looking at him like Kaz was a god he'd cut his own heart out to please and Kaz, half-dazed and probably hallucinating, figured the coma had messed with him big-time.

Snake freezes when he sees Ocelot's there. His eye follows him, as he quietly gets up and exits the room. One day Kaz will have to tell him they used to mess around, but not yet. It's too soon for them to have that fight.

For Snake the MSF burned just the other night, but he’s clearly not blaming Kaz for it. Kaz would tear out his IV and stab the needle directly into his own carotid if he did, if not Snake's first. But all Snake does is pull up a chair next to the bed and puts his red hand atop Kaz’s knuckles.

From what Kaz can remember - those liquor bottle shards he'd crawled around collecting to hold up to the light - Snake was different that night, too. Snake looks like he’s about to kiss him or cry on him or leave him all alone again, and Kaz wants to tell him to just crawl on top and fuck him already. Fuck it all out of them both. Who cares if he hasn’t healed yet. If he can’t even fathom getting an erection again.

Shit. He’s crying now. Smearing it all over his glasses.

Snake picks up the report from his chest, slowly flips through the pages. “No working until you’ve recovered, Kaz. Doctor’s orders.” He says it sweetly, though.

“It’s fine,” he tells Snake. “It’s going to take me a while to get back into the swing of things anyways.”

“There’ll be time for that.”

“I need to start working on my left hand ASAP.”

Snake sighs, bemused. “You’re not going to do that with an IV in.”

“Come on, Snake. I need this as much as Diamond Dogs does.”

“See you haven’t changed.” The red hand moves to his forehead, thumb brushing back his hair.

Please. Nine years and half his body and Snake says he hasn’t changed. Snake himself is goddamn unrecognizable, and it certainly isn't the shrapnel. Kaz lifts his chin to him anyways, waiting for Snake to do something. Kiss him. Lecture him. Anything.

The scars on Snake’s face are horrible in the clean light of the hospital room. Looks like he fell face-first into a mirror. There’s a tear right across the taut line of his mouth, and his teeth scrape it when he sucks it in to frown.

“Look, I'm not gonna overdo it. I'm about to take a nap right now, okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, get some rest.” Snake draws back like a flinch, but he leaves the report and the pen behind. He gives Kaz a few skittish backward glances while he leaves and doesn’t seem to want to close the door.

Jade Tree Frog, the fourth wisest monkey, is standing in the corner staring at her chart. She’d make one hell of a spy for all that she hears, sees, and speaks no evil, but she’s the one who gives the real spy his naloxone. When Kaz calls her and nods at the door, she purses her lips before giving an answering nod. No more visitors. Let Snake bang on the door all he wants - or, hell, sit there like a lost puppy. That seems to be the theme of the times now.

“And give me more morphine,” Kaz says, wincing. "Unless you're gonna let me have some booze in here." He’s got to stop lifting his arm.

"Sorry, sir, but you've had your dose."

"Ether, then. Or nitrous, if you got it."

Jade Tree Frog sighs and lets him slide. Ether might be a fun night for a more degenerate man, but Kaz deserves it considering the circumstances.

Now Kaz can really reflect. Without Snake or Ocelot around there's no reason to pussyfoot around the fact that six inhuman things clawed out his eyes and chopped off his limbs before even more monsters chained him up and gangraped him for days on end. That’s what happened. That's the new starting line for the rest of his life.

That's not even right. They weren't monsters. Just men.

Kaz, too, was just a man.

He made it out, though, right? He's back on his very own ocean fortress with his army and his Snake and he's safe.

Kaz doesn't want to ever fall asleep again. The ether's making him woozy. He fumbles for the mask until Jade Tree Frog sees him struggling, and then she's got to reset his IV while pretending she can't see her commander cry.

Something happened to his eyes and he isn’t sure what, but he thinks he can read Jade Frog’s chart even from the bed. He gestures for it with a curl of his fingers. There’s his height and weight - much lighter than he used to be. Each stitch counted, each laceration accounted for, each fissure and shattered kneecap and yes, the burns and scrapes in his esophagus from when he vomited a gallon of cum and $19,000 USD, give or take. The words blur together. Whatever happened to his eyes isn’t here.

“Hey... Frog.”

She looks up from frowning at her nails.

“Did we ever fuck? Be honest.”

“Sir, with all due respect, I did warn you about the ether,” she says blandly, and takes back at her chart.

“C'mon, be straight with me. When did you join up, ‘79? ‘81?”

“1980, sir.”

“You’re trying to tell me we never fucked? Hah... that’s rich. Maybe we blacked it out or something. If Ocelot was there, can't say I blame you.”

She’s not happy now, no. But what’s she gonna do? Abandon her patient?

“You know, if you ever wanted to get a taste, now’s the time.” It's slurred, but Kaz has seduced plenty of women twice as loaded. “Shit, everyone and their granddaddy’s already gotten in on it. Don’t tell me you’ve never thought about taking a bite outta the legendary soldier’s piece of ass.”

Frog’s about to snap, but then she flinches and closes her mouth. Waits a beat. “Sir. We can find a qualified psychotherapist if you need someone to speak to about your experiences. Unfortunately, that’s not what I got my degree in.”

“Ah, I get it. All this time you been waiting on Big Boss himself, huh. Can’t say I blame you. You know he’s got, like, a ten inch cock? Almost fat around as a beer can. Let’s just say I’ve had to work standing up a few times.” He winks even if she isn't looking. "The days I wasn't spending on my knees, that is."

“However,” Frog continues, staring at nothing, “you are still my patient in the meantime. As well as my commander.” She pauses. Mouths a few words like she’s practicing her next sentence. “As as far as I know, I joined Diamond Dogs four years ago to serve under Commander Kazuhira Miller. There was nothing about some promise of penis circumference in my contract.”

So definitely a threeway with Ocelot. Right around '81 was when he started getting all weird and possessive.

Kaz has probably been awake long enough. He slithers down on the bed a little, tubes dragging, and closes his eyes. When he wakes up the cover of the report is scrawled over in repeating spirals, his own name in kanji, something about giving Frog a raise.

He’s got to get back to work ASAP.

The two days Kaz uses a wheelchair he runs over six different feet, crashes into three different walls, almost breaks his wrist trying to make a sharp turn, and runs Snake ragged while the man pleads to push him around like his own precious baby in a pram. Ocelot preens when he takes the prosthetic, but it’s just a peg leg, no state-of-the-art bionic. Kaz will be damned if he pays an arm and a leg for the literal. 

Yeah, that's going to be his new favorite pun. He rolls it over his tongue a few times until a streak of lightning shoots up his missing leg and leaves him breathless.

But the leg works great. There’s a routine Kaz is figuring out. Wake up, wince, sit up, try not to scream, grab sunglasses, wait for eyes to stop festering, grab fake leg, don’t let Snake put it on, send Snake out for coffee so he stops hovering, shake for thirty whole seconds, finally get leg on, reach arm, ignore phantom arm, grab crutch, haul ass out of bed. Completely fail to put on a pair of pants. Try not to crawl back into bed when he remembers that there’s stairs in between his quarters and his main office.

But the main office does have a storage closet and a WC attached. There’s more than enough room for a cot in there, if he just stacks the boxes a different way. With a little grease and brainpower, any problem can be solved. Ocelot gets the job done within a day while Kaz squints at that budget report. He hopes he isn’t going blind, he has no idea how much a Braille printer would cost. The iDroid's got some fine text-to-speech capabilities, but they could be finer, and he couldn't imagine listening to that robot drone constantly. 

“This is wrong,” he calls, and Ocelot appears from the closet with a box of last year’s supply order receipts in his arms.

“Hm?” He balances it on the desk to read over his shoulder. “No, that’s right. I made some adjustments to the construction budget.”

“What for?”

“...Accommodations?”

“No. No, this is ridiculous. We’re supposed to be building the arms plant with this, not wheelchair ramps. Doghouse Arms Corp is our - we're changing the name, jot that down -”

“Would you prefer a system of ropes and pulleys? Wooden bridges?”

“I can make it up the stairs,” Kaz says. “Did it well enough, just the other day. It's not like I need to be climbing every ladder anyways. Skip the bathroom remodel, too. What do I need a luxury shitter for?”

“If you’re going to be so stubborn about not using prosthetics -”

“I got the leg, what more do you want?”

“Miller,” Ocelot snaps, “You’re disabled. Missing half your body means adjustments -”

“You think I don’t goddamn _know_ what I’ve lost?”

The volume of his own voice surprises Kaz. The fact that the entire budget report is now two dozen scattered pages on the floor surprises him too.

Who knows why he bothered keeping last year’s supply receipts. Those can go on the floor too.

Ocelot gives him half an hour or so to cool off. Kaz doesn’t know exactly how long it is because he doesn’t have a goddamn watch anymore and he isn’t used to periodically checking the wall clock. But it’s around 1130 when Ocelot comes back with his arms loaded with bedding and a Snake in tow.

“What are you doing here?”

“Helping.” Snake smiles over the stack of machine shop manuals in his arms.

“You should be halfway to the Heiwa Maru by now. Don’t you keep Abdulrahman waiting.”

Ocelot actually rolls his eyes before disappearing into the closet while Snake opens and closes his mouth like a fish. “Kaz -”

“Seriously, you’re not making us any money changing my diapers.”

“Kaz.”

“What?”

“Anyone else could fetch the client.” Snake hands the books off to Ocelot without looking at him. He strides right up to Kaz, looming, before sighing and cupping his face in his hands. “Look at me.”

“What.”

“I know what you’re doing.”

“I’m trying to make up for lost time,” Kaz hisses. “I’m trying to get us back to what -”

“We aren’t what we were. We never will be. But in the meantime, I’ve got you.”

“I’m fine, Snake.“

“I know. You’ve always been so proud.”

Snake always could get terrifyingly intense, single eye wide and dilated, but never so tender. Hopefully Ocelot’s left already because it’s obscene how Snake’s sigh sounds like a sob. How he’s looking at Kaz for the first time - no, that’s right. After that fight in the sauna, when Snake came back with a bottle of that shitty wine and tried to have a long talk about things like trust and loyalty and Kaz realized, shit, he thought they were married or something. That was the last time Snake looked at him like this.

Kaz swallows and doesn’t turn his head away this time.

“Just let me take care of you, Kaz.”

“I’m sorry.”

“And please don’t talk to me about money when you’re the single greatest investment I’ve ever made in my life.”

Kaz keeps his mouth shut to that. When Snake lifts him in his arms and carries him into his new bedroom, he’s glad to see Ocelot got the bed ready. He’s even more glad when Snake leaves him to sleep. Snake deploys at 0200 sharp, and within forty-eight hours Abdulrahman is safely back with his oil queen khaleeji just in time for midnight prayers.

The only regret is telling Snake about that contract with the environmentalists. Cashmere goats aren’t even endangered. While he can appreciate making the most of his deployment cost, there’s a point somewhere around 0400 on what's got to be a Thursday when Kaz throws off his headset and tries to lurch away from the comms only for his entire body to catch fire. He has to fall back down wheezing while Ocelot raises an eyebrow and Snake inhales sharp like he’s about to come right back home, fuel prices be damned.

“Snake, the next Pooyan I see is going straight to bacon.”

“Pooyan?" Snake sounds puzzled. Ocelot quirks his mustache.

Course Snake doesn't remember that. Kaz doesn't know why _he_ remembers that.

"I thought we weren’t supposed to be eating the animals."

Ocelot writes _Pooyan_ on a memo and underlines it. Kaz groans.

“Do you know the operating cost per hour of your support chopper? Either get your ass to Yakho Oboo or come home. Those BMP’s are moving in three hours and I wanted them yesterday. Why are you still hanging around Ghwandai Town anyways? That commander’s been moved.”

“Kaz, I -”

“Call me back when you’re ready to do some actual work.” Kaz turns off his radio. “Don’t look at me like that,” he tells Ocelot. “We don’t have the space for a zoo.”

“We could.”

“I told you. We’re building the arms factory first. Seiner crew’s already catching more fish than we can eat, I think the goat farm can wait. What am I gonna do with Cashmeres anyways? We’re not trying to take over Fabri-Centers of America here.”

Now there's a thought. Sheep need to be sheared, and the Cashmere market must be suffering in a war zone. Kaz'll put a pin in that for morning. His fingers ache when he pulls off his headset. "Call in the B team. I'm not dealing with this crap anymore."

Ocelot sighs and rubs the lines under his eyes. “Maybe you should get some rest. I’ll take care of things here.”

“Do what you want. As for me, it's not too late to get the most out of my beauty sleep.”

Kaz makes it up for real this time and stalks back to his closet. Goes through the long process of waking up in reverse. Flops on his cot and reaches for the pills under his pillow. There's still a bit of gin under his cot to wash them down. It takes a minute for the meds to kick in, but when they do, he finally slips into a dreamless sleep.

 

 

Unbelievable as it sounds, leaving Ocelot alone with Snake was a bad idea. Kaz creases the latest personnel report and wonders what the fuck Snake was thinking extracting two guys from Ghwandai.

“One of them is XOF for sure,” Ocelot says helpfully. “Not so sure about the other one, but it’s worth a look.”

“Where are they?” Kaz takes a sip of black coffee and wonders if Ocelot slept at all. He popped an extra pill this morning, he’s built up enough of a tolerance to them by now. Still feeling like hot shit, but at least he’s on his feet.

“Waiting.”

“All right. Let’s go.”

Ocelot blinks. “You want to do this now?”

“Of course.”

The lights in Room 101 are deep red. Easy on his weak eyes. Kaz drinks another cup of coffee at the table and wonders if this one knows where his Rolex is while Ocelot plays around spinning the knife like a revolver. He looks vaguely familiar. Maybe it's just the mustache.

“You remember the Rolex, right? Big shiny gold watch, hard to miss.” Kaz interrupts. “Did you swallow it too? Good idea, that.”

Irkutsk's very own John Wayne Gacy twitches. Says something in Russian Ocelot responds to sharply.

“What do you think, Ocelot? Should we take a look inside?” He hauls himself up and clomps his way to the bound man. “Which hole should we try first?”

Somehow he can still stand when he lifts his crutch off the ground. The rubber tip circles Pogo the Clown’s quivering mouth lovingly. It slips in easier than a cock would, and goes down further. Past his gag reflex to bulge in his throat. Pogo wants to puke really bad, but he can’t quite get it up when his head’s being tilted back like this.

Gross, now he’s choking on his puke and Kaz is going to have to clean his crutch. He draws it out and watches him vomit. No watch. That’s fine. Kaz can always cut it out of his stomach if he has to.

“Miller,” Ocelot drawls slowly, and Kaz finally looks at him.

Oh, it’s _that_ Ocelot, and he wants to talk. Questioning your partner in front of the prisoner wasn’t covered in Interrogation 101, so Kaz follows him back behind the one-way mirror.

“What are you doing?”

“Trying to find my watch. What, did you need something else out of him?”

Ocelot runs a thumb up the back of his knife, strangely calm. “No. You can do what you like.”

“Great, because I’ve got a real shitty job to look forward to. Pick up some baby wipes for me.” He turns away, but Ocelot snatches him from behind. Pulls him tight against his body while the crutch clatters.

Of course this Ocelot is already rock-hard. “You know what else you can do to him now,” he says, lips against Kaz’s ear, and just like that the chips are on the table.

No. Not that. The crutch is one thing, there's a level of physical separation there, but Kaz doesn’t even think - no. He couldn’t.

“Or, you could watch me do it.”

“No.”

“Then what do you want to do?”

Ocelot’s breath is warm on the back of his neck. He’s folding Kaz’s fingers over the hilt of the knife. Using his hand to wield it.

[There was a vision he’d had in Ghwandai.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12468704) Not Major Ocelot riding in on a white horse, but of Shalashaska. That whispered legend nauseated him at first - like he didn't know damn well why he could never ask Ocelot where the intel came from. Nothing like some good old exposure therapy to cure that particular stomach upset.

Yeah, his imagination kind of ran away with him back in the hole. But the offer’s on the table. Kaz could walk away broke. Go back to his closet and grab the gin under his bed and end this whole fucking day.

Or he could scoop up the chips and walk away a winner.

“I want,” Kaz says carefully, “to chop off his dick and stick it up his own asshole."

“He would die of blood loss. And it would hardly be erect.”

“So? Cauterize the wound and shove it up soft. Make him eat it. Hell, flay it and use the skin as a condom.”

The knife falls to the floor.

“You’re shaking,” Ocelot says, voice stretched taut.

“So are you.”

“Look at me, Kaz. Tell me if that's what you want.”

Kaz looks at him. Ocelot’s biting the inside of his lip and his eyes are strangely bright. It almost looks like he’s about to cry, but Kaz knows this look too well.

If this man had strode into Da Ghwandai Kar to show those greasy vodka-swilling goatfuckers what torture was, Kaz would’ve pulled himself up on the mangled scraps of his body to watch. Would’ve crawled over to him and rode him even with his ass still ruined and bleeding.

Yes. He still would.

“They took my _fucking_ Rolex. What do you think?”

Ocelot cuts him off with a tongue down his throat. Spins Kaz around, half carrying and half dragging, and shoves him so hard against the window his back cracks. Bites and sucks on his tongue until it starts to bleed and the hand that isn’t holding Kaz up is already throwing his belt to the ground. Yes, this is what he’s been needing, one of these days he’s going to punch that pitiful look off Snake’s beautiful goddamn face he’s so fed up with it. Ocelot licks the blood off his face, hands grabbing both shoulders as shoves the stump of his right leg aside to rut against his boxers. He hasn’t even taken off his own pants yet.

Kaz scrapes Ocelot’s tongue with his teeth, whining in the back of his throat. The sound draws Ocelot back to stare at him. He lifts the hand off his good shoulder to fit Kaz’s jaw in the span of his middle finger and thumb. Tilts his head back to see saliva and blood run down his chin.

“How much was that watch worth?” The shades fog beneath his breath.

“Today?” Kaz pants, thinking. “Probably twenty thousand -”

“Tell me it in flesh. What’s the price of skin, sold by the flayed square meter? Did you work that one out too?” Ocelot grins with all his teeth. “How many men would you need to turn to ribbons to cover the cost of that watch? How many raped corpses would I have to stack bring you back into the black?”

That's too much.

Is it really, though?

Too much was the third or the seventieth cock Kaz took in Ghwandai. Too much was the gallon of cum he’d vomited, when he’d felt that horrible churning in his belly and knew he'd be puking blood and gold next. Too much was the burning in his eyes even as he saw his own disembodied arm, the shock that left him numb and dumb and pliant while they forced inside of him, over and over again.

“I dunno. How much is your skin worth to you?” Kaz tilts his head further up against the wall, thighs tightening around Ocelot’s hips. “The way you try to hide those scars, must be more than a few rubles. Now we’re talking young, green recruits here. For every hero you’ve got the guy who just wants to go back to sticking his dick in a herd of Russian Whites. The market value fluctuates according to the individual consumer. That turns every transaction into a bazaar barter. It all comes down to how far you're willing to play their -”

Ocelot cuts him off by inhaling his words. Slams him back against the glass again without leaving his mouth and drags Kaz’s body down with him to the floor. He rises up on his knees to undo his belt and Kaz braces himself for what he’s about to see. For what he’s about to do. Nothing in the world could stop this, not even Snake walking in right now.

This was supposed to stop. That was the deal: no more screwing around once Snake wakes up. The deal never took into account Ocelot smearing precum on Kaz’s cheek. That nails-on-a-chalkboard screech that never goes quiet no matter what Kaz does, that’s getting louder and louder all the time, and maybe the only way to shut it up is for Kaz to part his lips and let Ocelot slide in.

Deal’s over. Just like that.

Ocelot tastes clean. He always did. Always moaned like this, too, grabbing Kaz’s hair in two fistfulls to move his head. His grip is looser today, though, and he doesn’t start fucking Kaz’s throat. Kaz grabs onto his trembling thigh and tries to remember what to do. How Ocelot likes it - not too slobbery, but toothy. The first time Kaz ever blew him Ocelot was stunned, it was almost cute how easy it was to suck his brains out of his dick.

Sucking dick isn’t hard. Sucking Ocelot’s dick is the easiest thing in the world. Kaz doesn’t know what’s wrong with him, but too soon Ocelot is pulling off and dropping back down to kiss him again. Slip his fingers around Kaz’s cock to try to stroke him to life.

"No," Kaz pants. Even with Snake, it's a little hard to get it up when the last time he came was on the wrong greasy Russian. "Doesn't matter. Just -"

"What you want is on the other side of the glass. Or would you rather I fucked you like he did? The way I'll fuck him later?"

"You really gonna do that?"

"If that's what you want," Ocelot says, and bends to slip his tongue inside Kaz's foreskin.

Fuck, but it's actually working. Maybe a fake Russian was what he needed. Ocelot doesn't even touch below his balls, where the scars are still raised, and Kaz watches in wonder as his cock manages to stand up. When Ocelot sits back to admire his work, though, he's suddenly all dazed and confused. Slowly blinking before drawing back to pick up Kaz’s belt from the floor.

"Wait, wait, don't stop." He tries to grab Ocelot's wrist with the wrong hand. "Ocelot, wait."

"Miller, I'm -"

“You're not sorry. Don't say you're sorry."

Ocelot reaches out, carefully, and touches Kaz’s cheek with his thumb. It comes away wet.

“I think we’re done for the day.”

“Don't you fucking walk away from me -” Kaz rasps, but Ocelot’s leaning into him again, wrapping one hand around his neck. 

 

 

There was a cat that hung around the shop in Yokosuka. It ate the rats and chased the gulls away, which was fine enough, but it also liked to flop over the register and left paw prints all over the ledger. His mother scolded him when he would shove it to the floor.

Kaz hasn’t dreamt about his childhood in a while. He wakes up feeling twelve years old again and then realizes he isn’t in pain for the first time in weeks. He bit his tongue in his sleep again, but at least this morning he can put on his prosthetic leg without wincing.

Dammit, he overslept. Commander Miller always is up at least two hours before the sun, but a few lines of orange are creeping through the blinds in his office. Ocelot’s already left a few things for him to look over.

Sitting on top of the file folders is a watch.

It's a Vostok. Basic Komandirskie with a blue bezel. Kaz has been so busy blowing loads on the latest Casio Marlins for the Diamond Dog's divers, he hadn't considered a watch for himself yet. He has to bend his fingers too far and use some teeth to strap it around his wrist and set it to UTC+4.

Kaz twists his wrist and nods when he sees Ocelot in the mess hall picking up his daily gallon of coffee. "Give my thanks to the Major."

“It’s no Rolex, but.” Ocelot shrugs. “Should do for now.”

“That old thing was a little too gaudy for me anyways. Nobody needs a 24-karat watch. How much did you pay for this?”

“Just something I had lying around. Though if I recall, they're not more than a few rubles at the Voentorg.”

“Whatever it was, it's still more than what I paid for the MilSub.”

"Thought you pulled it off your dead Colombian pimp.”

Kaz laughs until he snorts. “I really told you that, huh? That’s the same shit I told Snake.”

Ocelot adds powdered creamer and sugar to his coffee. He’s disgusting like that. “I knew it. He treated you like a queen. It was a gift.”

Kaz leans back against the steel counter. Nods to a few passing soldiers carrying their oatmeal to a table. “Not half as exciting as that," he says. "My dad gave it to me when I graduated from Brown. He was real old brass, you know."

"That's quite a gift."

"Yeah. It was." Kaz takes the paper cup of black Ocelot hands him and takes a careful sip. His throat still stings. "Speaking of gifts. Anything out of our friend yet?"

"Him? It's only been twenty-six hours, Miller. Thought the plan was to let him rot for a while." 

"Right, right." Kaz has always been too impatient with interrogations. Ocelot says he spills the beans the moment he steps in the room, and frankly, he doesn't want to see anyone hold a cattle prod to a nutsack right now. "Keep me posted, though."

"Will do." 

The mess hall is getting crowded. Kaz allows himself a moment of envy for Ocelot's easy stride out, before hauling himself back up on his crutch and back to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This certainly won't be done during OceKaz week - nor does this even suit the days prompt - but these two chapters are what I had ready considering I had post True Hallucinations before this, so... stay tuned?
> 
> Like True Hallucinations, this also runs current with W&V but for the previously installed Commander Parasite mod, and, uh, the player choice.


	3. 1984...

The plan was to ask Ocelot for some real Siberian tigers to scout Siachen glacier for the Pakistanis, but the more Kaz considers that job offer the less he likes it. The Kashmir holds nothing for Kaz that Southeast Asia doesn’t already, and the general in question keeps throwing low balls. But Ocelot’s new job takes precedence over answering his damn radio, so Kaz drags himself outside in the glaring sun to follow the sound of barking.

Ocelot's hard at work on top of a control room on Command-B, as predicted. Snake is in the striped shadows of a scaffold watching them intently. 

Kaz checks in with Snake first. "How’s he doing?”

Snake pulls out his cigar and offers Kaz a puff. “DD or Ocelot?”

“Both, I guess.” The wormwood does smell nice. Maybe Kaz ought to give it a shot, but he's more interested in the support team's pot garden he knows nothing about. Frog recommended it for easing off the morphine.

Snake shrugs and brings the cigar to his lips again. Ocelot pushes on the puppy’s bottom until it sits. “Gotta be a wolf. I’ve seen a few in the mountains out there. No dogs, though.”

“A wolf?” Now the puppy's trying to lick Ocelot's face. “That’s no wild animal.”

“The thing with wild animals is, you just got to learn to speak their language.”

“Hah. True.” They've both heard that line before. That weird combat medic from the MSF was the one who showed Snake how to pick up his namesake alive, without it turning and biting him.   

“Besides, Ocelot’s no housecat himself,” Snake continues.

Kaz leans against the scaffold, giving his right hip a break. “Something happen with him?”

“Hm? No.”

Whatever happened between the two of them in '71 isn't something Kaz has ever been allowed to ask about. Of course Ocelot had better things to do than rot in the jungle while the Patriot's very own legend had a midlife crisis. Speaking of Ocelot, there's something he's supposed to tell Snake. Kaz shifts his fingers around the handle of his crutch, testing his new calluses. “You know Ocelot and I built this place while you were sleeping. Together.”

“I do.”

“We, uh.” Kaz worries his tongue against his teeth. It's going to come out sooner or later. “We kind of used to - “

“Get along pretty well, huh?” Snake rolls back his neck and uncrosses his arms. Finally looks at Kaz and smiles. “I’m not blind. And I didn’t expect you to become a monk.”

Awfully enlightened of him. Kaz waits for some other reaction but Snake is back to watching Ocelot. “Well, if you’re gonna be like that, it wasn’t just him. Women, too - lots. And a few other guys. Hell, in Thailand - what are you laughing for?”

Snake tries to stop smiling, at least. “Sounds like you two had fun. Didn’t need to stop on my account.”

“Yeah. Just a lot of good clean fun." Kaz frowns. "Wait, what is that supposed to mean?”

“I want you to be happy.” A red arm wraps around Kaz’s waist and tugs him off-balance. This is the absolute last brand of awkward Kaz was expecting. “What's wrong? You don't find him attractive?”

“Christ, Snake.” Kaz tries to wriggle away from him. Snake only tightens his hold. “Are you even listening to yourself?"

"Yes."

"If you want someone to fuck Ocelot that badly, do it yourself. Trust me, he'd be down.”

The indulgent smile falls flat. “We’ve never had that kind of relationship.”

“Pull the other leg. I hear it’s somewhere back in Ghwandai.”

“Is Ocelot… if he’s making you uncomfortable, he’s out of here.”

“No,” Kaz says sharply. “No, he hasn’t - I know he seems like a real mess sometimes, but he’s vital to our operations.”

“He’s not -” Snake starts, but Kaz breaks out of his grasp for real this time.

“What's your deal, anyways?” Shit, he really is shaking. There's no easy shortcut to opiate withdrawal, even if the weed helps. Kaz focuses on tapping the rubber tip of his crutch and his own breath. “You weren’t about this free love crap when it came to Cecile. Or Swan. Or - or anyone back in the MSF.”

Snake screwed Paz, for crying out loud. Like Kaz couldn’t tell, like Snake didn’t always fall for the blonde spies, but god forbid Kaz looked twice at the hot blonde who actually looked like an adult, or the big guy with steady hands. As if Snake hadn't wanted them both for himself. His skin crawls under the cool touch of a red hand on his cheek.

“Six stitches.”

“Yeah. Remember why?”

“I -” Snake blinks. Drops his hand. "I put them there.”

“Yeah. That was after I screwed the combat medic. Don’t tell me you don’t remember _that_.”

“Kaz…”

“Now you want me to screw _Ocelot?_ You gotta be kidding me.” Kaz’s laugh is nasty even to his ears. “What happened to your sense of loyalty, huh, Boss?”

Snake's gonna eat a fly if he lets his mouth sit open like that. But then he twitches, his eye goes wide and blank and, shit. Maybe Kaz should call for a medic.

“Boss?”

Snake opens and closes his red hand, staring at nothing even as he shivers. Then he pauses and takes three steps back. Nods a few times, muttering inaudibly. Looks up and smiles.

“You seen the leopard geckos yet?”

“The _what?_ ”

“I caught a few just around Wakh Sind a few weeks ago. Been reading up on reptile husbandry. One of them is having trouble shedding, but I think if I increase the humidity in her habitat it’ll help her out. Here, look.” Snake pulls out his iDroid and turns on the projection.

There’s tons of pictures. Geckos curled up in his hand. Donkeys running across a road. Wolves, hedgehogs, sheep, that one white Cashmere Snake seems a little too attached to. They’re all very cute, yes. In fact, Snake’s heading to see his goat right now if Kaz wants to come along.

“Ah.” Kaz swallows. “I’ve got to talk to Ocelot about something, actually. You know. Business.”

“All right.” Snake smiles like Mona Lisa herself. Turns around and wanders off between some supply containers. Ends up throwing down some CQC rounds from the sound of it.

Talk about brain damage.

Ocelot’s finally paying attention to something besides the dog. Kaz comes out from the shadows and waits for him. If Ocelot can climb down a ladder one handed while carrying a puppy, Kaz should be able to do it himself one day.

“What’s going on?” Ocelot sets down DD who promptly starts nibbling on Kaz’s empty shoe. “No! No chewing.”

“You wouldn’t happen to have Snake’s hospital records from Dhekelia, would you?”

“Sorry. Hospital was flattened.”

“What the hell happened? I know he was in a coma, but I sure wasn't expecting a whole nother person to wake up." Ten years ago those animals would be ranked by flavor, not hug-ability.

DD turns to trying to crawl up his boot. “Down, boy," he sighs. "Miller, there’s something you should know about Snake’s treatment plan. After nine years, nearly brain-dead? There was a good chance Snake would wake up with no memory of his past."

"No kidding."

"Didn't even remember me, at first."

“Granted, you were pretty unrecognizable.”

Ocelot ignores that dig. “So, while he slept, I told him stories. Things I gleaned from you, from old records - we didn’t have much from the MSF. I tried my best. The doctors tried their best. But there’s bound to be more than a few holes. Don’t be surprised if he remembers some things differently from you.”

“Well, you did a pretty bang-up job.”

“What’s he been saying?”

“I dunno. What have you been putting in his peace pipe?"

There's no way Kaz is going to trust whatever Snake said before - whatever happened there. Besides, he and Ocelot had a deal. 

A trip to medical turns up nothing. Snake’s cleared to go out into the field, and Kaz throws up his single hand and turns up some work. Within thirty-six hours Snake’s following a caravan containing General Leonid Generalov’s latest anti-material rounds that Doghouse Development should be selling to Hezbollah already.

“That is absolutely not how you say his name.” Ocelot says before letting loose a string of Russian sounds.

“I’ll get my accent down once I hit the front of the bread line, comrade. In the meantime, General Generalov -”

A shot rings out over the radio.

“Snake, get down!”

Intel has reported that Kaz’s biggest fan in XOF is somewhere around the Afghanistan base camp, but the stories themselves are ridiculous. Not that he ever had the privilege of meeting the woman, but the faceless ghost always turned out to be another trick of the old tanuki.

Looks like the stories were real. She vanishes from the radar only to reappear in three different locations at once, moving faster than any human should. The blips merge when she takes a shot, but the next second she’s gone again.

If she could have done this three years ago, Kaz and Ocelot alike would have been feeding the fishes in the gulf of Thailand, but trust Ocelot to completely forget that crapfest. No, he wants to bring her home, and Snake, who has every goddamn reason to shoot her right then and there, just rolls with it.

The moment she touches down on base Kaz sees the rumors were indeed wrong. This isn’t the woman who sabotaged his lobster boat and cost him three tons of heroin. That’s nothing but a thousand screeching _things_ that happen to know what tits look like.

His eyes buzz every time he looks at her, even under his shades. When he tries to blink his eyelashes are claws. No one even shoots her, no one does shit, and Snake just stands around like an idiot while the thing lets herself be taken away. A thousand eyes looking in every direction.

Speaking of eyes, Kaz thinks he’s figured out what happened to his. Her movements are certainly familiar to those other XOF monsters who blasted off his arms and legs and clawed him to shreds. By the time the Russians picked him up Kaz couldn’t even see their faces. 

He waits until after she’s finished up in R&D before slipping into the lab to read the report.

Photosynthetic. Like a plant or something. No wonder she goes around naked, but if Kaz’s parasite colony was as big as hers he’d be slathering himself in some kind of reflective paint. There’s a sample of her skin in a few sealed tanks under UV lights in the lab. An empty magazine in one, a petri dish of agar jelly in another, but the fastest-growing is over a raw cut of steak. Out of idle curiosity, Kaz tries holding his shades in front of the one bulb and watches the ooze shrink back on itself, bubbling. When he sticks a finger in his own eye, it comes away black and dripping.

Keeping an eye on what Ocelot dubs “Quiet” isn’t too difficult. About halfway down the bridge from medical to command is where the ooze stops. It takes Frog nearly crashing the Ape for Kaz to realize he’s the only one who can see her.

If she keeps growing, she can get into anything. Locked doors are nothing to an airborne hivemind. Working out his medication plan gives him plenty of excuses to visit medical and catch the odd puddle dripping out of an air vent, at least, and he sets up infrared cameras around base to keep a closer watch.

The whole time she's pretending to sit in her cell like a good girl. Zoom and enhance, and there's missing chunks of hair, fingernails - even her internal organs are detachable.

And the fake bitch just flashes her tits at her guards when she thinks Kaz isn’t watching.

Ocelot, on the other hand. Ocelot wants to send her out into the field. Cattle-prods her a few times and calls it a day in Room 101 and Kaz doesn’t say that she probably can’t talk because she’s just a vaguely sentient swamp and the red lights are having a completely different effect on her than they do on him. Things only start to make sense when Ocelot shows him the various offers from a few biotech companies and a few proposed Doghouse Arms Corps projects. If Snake ever asks, Kaz will definitely have to hide a few zeroes.

“See that?” Ocelot stabs a blueprint of a possible stealth camo upgrade with a finger. “Her invisibility alone could give us a major edge in stealth technology. Not to mention what her vision capabilities might do for our HUD.”

“It’s not technology, it’s biology,” Kaz muses. Is this what SIGINT meant by his talk of mechanical hiveminds? “Hey, you were there for Operation Snake Eater. Did you ever see that sniper? Snake told me about some old guy who was one with the forest or something.”

“Could have been the start of the project. A few of the Cobras had abilities similar to hers, if I recall correctly.”

“Huh.” Kaz considers. “That crusty old cripple told me Skull Face split from Cipher. I thought he was full of it, but if Skull Face stole biotech from the Company… makes sense, right? No wonder he set the two of us up. All that _be ready for Snake_ crap. Did you know about this?”

“A little,” Ocelot admits.

"This whole time. And you never told me.” Nine - no, it was ten years ago when Kaz first made contact with the man from Lubyanka. Not that Ocelot has ever come out and told him as such, but the pieces certainly weren't hard to put together.

“Miller, when have I ever done something for a single reason? You were still the man who turned Snake into a nuclear power - and the one he’d be looking for when he woke up.” Ocelot shrugs. “Seemed reason enough to keep a close eye on you, wouldn't you say?”

“Oh, I get you. You’re a multitasker from way back." Right, Kaz can guess why Ocelot wouldn't exactly be forthcoming. "But this crap here? This is the only thing Zero ever cared about.”

“Cipher’s still trying to cash a check off you, huh. Can't say I blame them.”

“Hah. Like hell if I’m letting them get another dime out of me. Does Skull Face have any idea what he's handed us? On a silver platter, nonetheless.” Yeah, this is the best goddamn day of Kaz’s life. “We could have the monopoly on this tech. What did Monsanto want with the parasites anyways?”

“Something about developing a new organic pesticide?”

“Safer than DDT, I bet. Not that I've considered agriculture - you know what, though, there's a thought." Hell, there might even be pharmaceutical potential in Quiet. "All right, I'll take the XOF bitch and Cipher's witchcraft with her. Bite 'em right in the ass with it. Seriously, Ocelot, I don’t care how much they’re willing to pay, we’re keeping anything else we find."

"Are you sure? The offers are only increasing." Ocelot taps all six digits with a gloved finger.

Kaz crumples up the bill. "Sometimes you gotta take the short term loss for the endgame."

"We'll keep this asset on the quiet side, then."

"Very funny. I'm gonna buy myself a new rolling mill.” He raps the back of Ocelot’s knees with his crutch before he can turn away. “Wait a second.”

“What's that?”

Kaz chews his lip. “We're keeping this from Snake.”

“I assumed as much.”

“I'll bet you right now he's trying to build another zoo exhibit for his latest tactical pet. Not to mention the last time I let a spy on base - present company excluded - we know damn well how that went down.”

“Understandable.” Ocelot nods.

“Look, I’m still not a hundred percent okay with this, but I can't say no to this kind of money.”

“I’ll keep a close eye on her," Ocelot says, and waves him off.

Kaz would just love to see that creature try to out-spy the legend. 

The iDroid Quiet gets doesn’t have half the capabilities Snake’s does. It’s just to let them stay in contact, and more importantly, to monitor her parasite activity. In the field she misses a hundred opportunities to shoot Snake down while Kaz studies how a cloud moves.

If he ever let his grow like that, it could save him a good half hour in the morning. He doubts Quiet can even feel pain. It’s tempting, all right, until Quiet starts seeping into the sand or sits like a big dumb plant for two hours and goes all loopy in a waterfall. The sound of a gunshot seems to focus her, or else music, and her humming is so loud Kaz can pick it up off Snake’s radio all the way back on Mother Base.

Quiet’s pretty good, but Kaz would like to see her try to do what he gets done in a day. His hivemind is small and contained as opposed to her sprawling one, but it only makes it that much easier to multitask. Little by little the careful chaos of his desk spreads around the entire office and his bedroom as well. He doesn’t have to waste extra energy looking for something when his eyes can drip right into the file cabinet. They move quicker on the blow, and when all Kaz wants to do is lie in a medicated haze his eyes still buzz like some particularly obese and sluggish sort of bee. Nothing like being able to blast through his entire inbox while still curled up in a pile of blankets in the dark.  

Coming out to Quiet can't stop her from smearing her shit all over the place, though. And he certainly can’t stop the little pervert from going in the showers. She knows damn well Kaz can see her oozing under the door to his office and if she wants to see next week’s staff rotations that badly, Kaz can’t say he gives a crap.

“If you ever wanted to kill me, now’s your chance,” he tells her one day. “Unless I can interest you in how much toilet paper we go through in a month.”

She spreads out like a challenge. To do what, Kaz has no idea. Maybe she’s just curious about the other parasite on base. He swivels a few lazy parasites around and nearly jumps when a sudden flash hits him. A single-frame shot of two sodden animal print suits stuffed inside biohazard bags.

What the hell was _that?_

He’s almost impressed she can remember that with the bugs eating away at her brain. Whatever just happened, she doesn't even seem aware of it.

“Go on, get out of here,” he says dismissively, and she rolls away without incident.

Quiet keeps following him around, though, and Kaz takes the opportunity to experiment with throwing suggestions at her. This psychic crap is completely out of his territory, and while he has no idea what he’s doing he can at least manage to annoy her if not outright threaten. She seems paranoid enough about something or other already. When the real Cipher plant washes up on base and Shalashaska starts panting, the first thing that comes to mind is some annoying children’s song. Those giant nutsacks always creeped him out when he was a kid.

Huey doesn't end up saying anything Kaz doesn't already know, but so far they're off to a promising start. Snake leaves soon after too, brooding, and then he’s left behind the glass with Ocelot. Between the two of them, they can guess damn well what this weapon to surpass Metal Gear is.

“I'm not sure if I want Quiet deploying in Africa,” Kaz says, brushing up by his side.

Ocelot's still standing there with his arms crossed. “Miller, you've seen her in the field. How many times does she need to save the Boss's life before you -”

“I'm not talking about that." Snake isn't even here. Is Ocelot high again? His pupils are neither dilated nor pinpricks. "What do you think this weapon they're building in Angola could _possibly_ be?”

“I'll get back to you on that.” Ocelot tilts his head, mulling. Shalashaska or whoever isn’t even _here_.

Shortly after Ocelot suffered a concussion, they established a protocol of sorts. While there's no telling how much Japanese Ocelot might actually know by now, it's one of the few languages he didn’t, for all intents and purposes, speak straight out of the womb. Kaz says the first two lines of the poem and waits for Ocelot to shudder, drop his head, before replying with the next two lines in a slow, clear voice.

That's better. He straightens, eyes blinking rapidly before settling on Kaz. “Miller. What was that for?”

“You were acting funny.”

“No, I wasn’t.” He genuinely believes it, too.

“Yes, you were.”

Ocelot presses a middle finger to each temple and sighs. Brushes past Kaz when he stalks back out to Huey.

So Skull Face is in Africa, then. Works just fine for Kaz. He's been keeping an eye on Angola for a while. Scouted some potential business deals along the way. It's high time he put a few more wheels in motion.

 

 

“How’s the hurt kid doing?” Kaz asks, frowning at the latest report in his in-pile. Another accident at the machine shop. So much for the work ethic of the proletariat. Doghouse Arms is facing a labor shortage if this trend continues. 

“He’s fine. We might be a few days on the Maru, though." Snake huffs, radio static crackling. "His leg needed to be splinted three days ago.” 

“Take as much time as you need,” Kaz says distractedly. “Call me when you’re on the boat, okay?” Hopefully it'll be more than a few days; Quiet's got her own on-board doctor to visit. Her parasite activity is as yet unaltered by anything she might have encountered in Angola, but it's too soon to tell for sure. He switches frequencies as soon as Snake signs off. “Foxtrot team, do you read me?”

“Loud and clear, Boss!”

“Foxtrot. Do you read me.”

“Roger that, Boss.”

“Foxtrot,” Kaz sighs. “Do you -”

“Loud and clear... sir.”

Sure, it might not matter on this channel, but it’s bad practice. Snake's awake now, and if anyone slips up in front of him there'll be _questions_. “The Boss successfully exfiltrated the mine. All targets incapacitated. You’ve got thirty minutes till they wake up. Watch it, some of those guys are just miners. We’re gonna need them.”

Kungenga was one of the top producers in the C.A.R. before the Buta authorities hired the wrong PMC. A single Diamond Dog member taking out the entire mine ought to be a good enough advertisement. Kaz slides his parasites across the desk to view the latest production reports, the personnel files of some relevant hires, the laminated copy of his mining license, and the bill of sale for his brand-new jig machines. Right, and the latest accident in the ammo factory.

Kaz pulls a precious bag of white powder out of his pocket and considers while setting up a line.

They should really call up UNICEF for those kids, but on the other hand, kids have small and dexterous fingers. Easy to train, too. He’s not going to send them into a battlefield, but five hours a day in the factory ought to be fine. With breaks for lunch. That’s less than a typical workday back in Yokosuka.

There’s a burst of gunfire from the channel and Kaz snaps his parasites back behind his shades to focus on forcibly taking over a diamond mine. He jumps in his chair when Ocelot opens the door and bright sunlight suddenly fills the office.

“Shouldn’t you be doing anything else?”

“Shouldn’t you be?” Ocelot strides in with yet another report about that new .50 cal sniper rifle he won’t shut up about. He takes in the entirety of Kaz’s desk at a glance without any parasites. “About time Diamond Dogs lived up to the name.”

“Look, you know how Snake gets about money. It’s this, or I start taking wage deductions.”

“I think Snake’s learned your rule by now.”

“I’m just saying. You never saw this. Now take a seat and put on your headset, Tactical Instructor.”

Ocelot takes a seat on top of the desk and goes straight to talking tactics as if he’d been planning this operation from the start. It’s a shoe-in, really. Not every Rogue Coyote member finds their paycheck worth their life in the first place. Kaz loves mercenaries.

“Nice work,” Ocelot smiles finally. He peers over a bill of sale as if he knows the first thing about jig machines. “You really think you can improve output by fifteen percent?”

“We’ve been scouting out that mine for ages. Rogue Coyote got their start protecting their truck routes, but operations have been slowing down lately. I think we’ve made a good enough impression on the regime so far, and Diamond Dogs has the state-of-the-art tech they need.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Ocelot carefully slips yet another receipt over his gun advertisement.

Kaz snatches it up and frowns over the Barrett diagram. “Don’t butter me up just because you want a new toy. Use your words, like a grown-up.”

“Miller. The M82 is the first .50 cal sniper rifle in production.”

“And Doghouse Arms Corps can outsell Ronnie Barrett any day. I get it.”

“I knew you’d see it my way,” Ocelot purrs. Not even a year ago he’d be sliding off the desk to crouch under it.

Kaz licks his lips. “Hell, we ought to get that monster one of these anyways.”

“You think?”

“Yeah, I think. We can afford to spend a little on the best backup the boss’s got.” If Kaz had a right hand, he’d be grabbing Ocelot’s thigh and pulling him across the desk. The phantom pain starts up the moment he tries to reach for him, but there’s no way Ocelot missed his intention.

That’s not right. Kaz didn’t mean to do that. He stares at the lines of Ocelot’s thighs.

“When was the last time you fired your weapon, Miller?”

Kaz looks up from his thighs expecting to see some cruel sort of smirk. But Ocelot seems genuinely curious. “Once I get my left-handed writing down, I’ll start shooting again.”

“I’m sure you could fire at least .22 short single-handedly.”

As opposed to the .45 strapped across his chest. Kaz has already tried that. In the first place, his knuckles are swollen and the tendons of his hand are constantly strained. Then there’s the problem of raising his hand in the first place and losing the support of his crutch. He has enough work to do without worrying about that.

“Tell you what,” Ocelot says, throwing out one foot to watch his spur spin. “We’ll clear the range on top of R&D. Just you and me. I’ll tie one arm behind my back and hop on one leg.”

“You’re ambidextrous.”

“And you’re learning to be. Are you a desk-bound CEO, or a military commander?”

“I’m both,” Kaz snaps. He knows damn well what Ocelot’s suggesting. He remembers how "target practice" used to go. "Well? You're on."

Getting to the top of the main wing of R&D takes over an hour, but it is the most isolated shooting range on base. Kaz makes it all the way up every grueling step and nearly collapses at the top. He does, after checking for any staff in sight. Then he takes off his coat and wipes his face with his beret. Ocelot offers him his canteen, courteously.

"I'm fine."

"How about some blow?"

Kaz chews his lip. "I'm not an addict." 

"Good. Wouldn't want an addict for a commander."

It's only fine when the tactical instructor does it, right. Ocelot actually pins his right arm back, fitting his wrist under his bandolier, because it's all just a big fucking joke to him while Kaz tries to remember how to hold his gun.

"I always told you to quit that teacup grip."

"Always? I've never held a gun like that in my life." Maybe back in the JSDF, maybe once or twice out of old habit. Maybe one fucking time his left hand was a little low that Ocelot will never let him live down.

But he might as well have laid his limp left hand flat under the magazine for all that it knows how to hold a weapon. His 1911 - no, his reconfigured _Doghouse Arms Material Delta-114_ \- never seemed so clunky. His fingers are just too stiff from the long haul up those stairs. He's had bad nerve pain all day and it's a miracle he can stand right now, let alone lift his elbow off his crutch. Kaz should have gotten high for this. Popped one of those pills he isn't supposed to be taking anymore.

No, Kaz isn't going to fire his weapon under the influence because he isn't Revolver goddamn Ocelot. So what if his eye is completely backwards? He can take a page from Quiet's book for that. No wonder she makes those crazy trick shots all the time, even Kaz's weak parasites have perfect vision.

One blistered finger on the trigger and there's Armadillo's skull cracking open.

Yep, there it goddamn is. And when he fires through the entire magazine it's still there, those white-hot flashes even stronger than the recoil that's trying to dislocate every joint in his arm.  

Kaz drops his arm, chest heaving. The few that actually hit the target are low and to the right. While Kaz has always had a tiny flinch he's worked his ass off to train away, he's never been this useless.

Ocelot actually whistles. "Been straining your wrist, much?"

"Only got the one."

"That recoil must've done a number on your elbow, too. Here, Let me." 

Kaz goes limp when Ocelot slides up behind him, but's nothing like their old target practice sessions. There's at least three respectable inches between Ocelot's crotch and Kaz's ass. His touch is cool and professional, gloved hands never lingering too long as he adjusts Kaz's stance. That's right, he was trying to compensate for his shorter peg leg. He squeezed too hard, his trigger finger shook, he focused too much on the pain in his wrist and forgot all about his shoulders. Still the recoil is too much for him. Maybe in the morning. 

"What about your revolver?" Kaz asks, trying to reload with one hand. Ocelot picks up every bullet he drops. "That ought to be easier, right?"

"Sure you can handle the double-action?"

"Not those new ones. Let me fire the Colt. Those are both single-action." Kaz has fired those plenty of times - back in the day, they called it foreplay.

"I was thinking you might switch to tranq rounds. Just to get you back in the swing of things." Ocelot takes over reloading, fingers nimble and quick. "Besides, I traded in those antiques a while ago."

The black powder frame, maybe. But the engraved silver? Never. The least he could have done would be to hand it off to Kaz to find a real collector with an Old West fetish, but Ocelot can keep that secret if he wants. The revolvers he carries today look nothing like that mismatched and impractical pair of Colts. Ocelot puts one Tornado-6 in his hand and lets him see it for himself. Seems to be a highly customized version of the Hurricane Doghouse Arm's makes.

Nice enough - for a revolver. And unlike every revolver Kaz has ever seen, it fires from the bottom of that ugly hexagon. "That lower bore axis means you'll feel less of the recoil in your wrist," Ocelot explains. "Unfortunately for you, that's meant to fire shotshell. Might still have a bit of a kick."

Kaz assumed he was packing those shells with smack. "Snake shot, huh? What kind of critters you been shooting?"

"All kinds of pests on base."

"Yeah, you can thank the Boss for that." He hands it back to Ocelot. It is heavier than it looks. "I'll pass. Getting a little late for target practice, anyways." A glance at his Komandirskie confirms Kaz has better things to do. There's a supply lift he can ride two flights down from the range. 

 Back in the privacy of his closet he strips down to his boxers, catalogs all the reasons Ocelot wouldn't want to touch him anymore, and slips in the shower before deciding he got wet, at least. His hair dries stiff and tacky and he still smells like last Tuesday's gin, but for the next thirty hours there's no reason to leave the office. After all, he's got a brand new diamond mine to oversee. Ocelot beats Agama to the punch once or twice, bringing hot food and fresh coffee, and gets a polite thanks and a closed door for his trouble.

 Snake, of course, still wants to touch him. Snake comes home smelling like the wetlands with red mud on his boots. He caught a pair of okapis, got a few anti-aircraft emplacements Kaz hasn't started developing yet, and now he wants to put on his new Curtis Mayfield tape and hold Kaz all night long. That's fine. Truth be told, Snake's come a long ways from those sweaty jungle nights.

"I know you don't want to talk about Quiet," Snake says, even as he presses a kiss to his neck, "but you saw her shoot down those Skulls."

"I'm not worried about Quiet."

"Really."

"More worried about you." Kaz hesitates, but this is another conversation that's been a long time coming. "You don't touch me like you used to, Snake."

"Tell me how I used to, then."

"What, you don't remember?"

Snake stays silent while Kaz lifts his elbow to move his hand up and flatten his forearm against his neck. Like that, but hard enough to bruise.

"I'm not going to choke you."

"Going easy on me now that I'm a cripple?"

"Kaz."

"Or are you just too old to put up a fight anymore?" Kaz rolls over to face him. Snake looks sad, but that's all right. Kaz is feeling pretty sad himself. "Since when do you like it so boring? I can barely remember a time we fucked without a round of CQC first."

Now he's hurt. Snake's mouth is a flat line. "I think your eyes are bad enough without shards of broken glass in them."

Kaz isn't even wearing his glasses, but his left eye twitches instinctively. It was just an accident, and the little white scar on his lower eyelid has long faded, but it took hours for the medic to get every last piece out. "That was ten years ago, Snake. I think we've learned a thing or two since then. Doesn't mean you need to fuck me like your high school girlfriend."

The medic had the same dour face, too. Why the hell is Snake looking at him like -

Like another man who liked animals and Curtis Mayfield. Who had steady hands and a patient smile. Easy lay, at least until he put six stitches in Kaz's cheek and picked the glass out of his eyes.

Nine years ago he took some shrapnel to the head. That's what the doctor said.

This tape isn't new at all. The album came out in 1970, but Kaz heard for the first time in a medical tent in Columbia in 1972. Soft and quiet beneath the humming insects, the beat of rain on canvas. Back in the days when Kaz was still scrambling to find his hobbled feet at Snake's side, he couldn't figure out why a man like that would follow a beast like that. Always was good with wild animals, though, wasn't he? Always did what he was told. 

That single eye is wide and blank again and the more Kaz looks at the scars on his face, the more he knows it's true.

Or else Kaz is completely insane.

"What do you want from me?"

What could Kaz possibly want from a dead man? The medic shoves him off and repeats the question when Kaz tries to kiss him quiet. 

 "I want - " Kaz swallows, nauseous. "I want to know it's you when you touch me."

"You know who I am, Kaz."

No. He really, really, doesn't. Kaz grabs that red hand and forces the fingers open - no, he lets him. Lets him wrap those fingers around his throat. "If you're Big Boss, then _fuck me like him_ ," he says, and pushes those fingers down. 

The medic stares at him unblinking as his fingers whir. When he takes them off Kaz is about to _scream_ but now he's shoving Kaz right off the bed and crashing right after him. A few cups roll, spilling old booze on papers that must not have been too important. Kaz is stuck, pinned under his bulk, and the medic was taller than Snake ever was. At least he can't see his face anymore. Nothing but a dark panting shape looming up there.

"Now do you remember?" Kaz asks, and the thing cuts off his next words. 

Before he shoves inside of him Kaz rolls over to hide that he's still soft. The medic bites his neck bloody while he ruts, whimpers when he comes too fast. Stays buried inside him even as his cock softens, kissing over where he's bitten like he can still heal with a touch. When Kaz calls him by name he finally goes still.

Of course he doesn't remember it. 

Kaz extracts himself out from under him. Props him up so he's sitting against the bed. Kisses his forehead before handing him his cigar. Then he drags himself up, wincing, and finds the kiseru in his coat. It's tricky to stuff it single-handed, but the dead man lights it for him. 

"Thanks."

The medic smiles and puffs his cigar. In a minute he'll start talking about his animals again. Maybe even tell him one of Ocelot's  _stories_. 

Ocelot could have just fucking told him. At any time during the past nine years. Where's Snake? How's he doing? Nothing, Miller, he's dead and we've got a body double. Or, he's ditched you to go dig mud out of his ass again, but here's the mascot you need for that billion fucking dollar enterprise you built for him. That I've been building with you because who needs commandos when you've got money, right?

Wasn't Ocelot more concerned with chasing down that parasite project anyways?

How much heroin is in Ocelot's system right now, and how can Kaz trigger an accidental overdose to murder him in his sleep?

There's a plan. But first he's going to find his crutch and wrap his fat naked ass in his trench coat to take this bowl of reefer outside. Between the clogged kiseru, his crushed throat, and the crisp salt wind he ends up hacking half a lung up, but he hasn't been getting out enough these days. The moon's looking nice tonight, even if the floodlights on base blot out the stars. Kaz hops along to the edge of the platform, down a short series of steps until there's nothing but two catwalks and a few hundred meters between him and the sea. He'll have to come back with the medic before he jumps off, but at least the 0230 patrol won't find him here.

"Oh, fuck off."

The little voyeur scatters. Too bad for Quiet, the party's over and he's too tired to screech at her right now.

Figures the fake would fall for a fake. They'd make a real pair - hell, they already do in the field. Maybe the new free-love policy extends to monsters. Kaz chuckles at the thought, blowing smoke over the water. And a fire in the sky, right? Snake used to like that bass line. Maybe Kaz has that tape somewhere around.

He doesn't hear the spurs jingling until it's too late.

 


	4. PATIENT ZERO

“PPE, check!” Kaz taps the safety glasses overlying his shades.

The kids hesitantly touch their own, repeating after him. Full immersion is the best way to teach them English, but Pee Pee Eee is a little easier to say than Personal Protective Equipment. As long as they learn no one goes in the machine shop without jumpsuits, safety helmets, safety shoes, glasses, and respirators. All their bracelets and crap goes in a locker, hair gets pulled back, and they’ll never work without at least two adults present.

It’s good, solid work for them. Now if only that little white brat knew the value of a day’s labor. Should’ve been obvious he wasn’t Snake’s kid - Snake never pitched tantrums at the thought of work. No, Eli is some white South African war orphan with a widowed mother who told him too many stories about what a hero his father was.

These kids, on the other hand, know how to listen. It was kind of rough going when Snake failed to grab their friend, but child soldiers know shit happens.

“This machine,” Kaz says, pointing at the shiny new bullet press, “will do most of the work for you. Your job is to keep it operational and to keep your fingers away from any and all moving parts.” Blank stares. Kaz points to his missing arm, to the press, and mimes it out. The kids only look curious as to why he would put his entire arm in there.

That’s right. For these kids, occupational hazards once meant a warlord’s machete. They’ll be fine. Every single part is cut and ground by the machines. All the kids need to do is keep the machines running and put the parts together. Kaz pulls out his iDroid to type into the automatic translator anyways only for it to start ringing on him. He waves the kids away. Not to explore the shop unsupervised, but to give him a minute. Better not be Snake telling him about his zebras again.

“Talk to me.”

“We got trouble,” Ocelot says.

Do they ever. Mother Base’s very own bitch from the black lagoon finally pissed the bed. Poor Rough Badger says she molested him before trying to stick a knife down his throat. Quiet’s waiting in Room 101, but there’s something Ocelot wants Kaz to see first.

Kaz smiles at Rough Badger grimly as Platypus hands him the report. His eyes are tingling, but he can’t see anything especially Quiet-like going on. But infrared imaging on his chest picked up something all too familiar.

According to Ocelot’s additional notes, the samples scraped from his lungs shared a DNA profile with what they found half-dead infesting a sodden corpse pulled from Mfinda Oilfield. That just so happened to resemble whatever it was in that creepy warehouse Snake stumbled into that got burnt to a crisp.

Comparisons with Quiet’s colony showed enough similarities in terms of form and function, but it’s an entirely different species. This new parasite is neither photosynthetic or hermaphroditic. Kaz’s eyes twitch instinctively. Maybe Quiet was trying to destroy an inferior species. Biological warfare, straight out of the petri dish. But if Quiet could see it, why couldn’t Kaz?

He’d go to Room 101 immediately but Jade Tree Frog is coughing even as she adjusts Badger’s blanket.

Kaz squints at them both. No, there’s definitely something there. “You doing all right there?”

“I’m fine, sir.” She smiles. Coughs again. “Just a bug that’s been going around.”

“You’re a nurse,” Kaz snaps. “If you can’t keep yourself healthy, how are you supposed to keep soldiers healthy? Get yourself on antibiotics already.”

His eyes are still itching as he stalks through the hospital wing and down to the Ape where Agama, his chauffeur of the hour, waits. It’s been muggy on base lately, the clouds never wanting to break. Prime time for a cough to start going around.

“What, you’re sick, too?” He slides into shotgun while Ocelot climbs in back. Yep, there it is. The tingly feeling in his eyes.

Agama shrugs. “Guess it’s flu season, sir.”

“Hm. Take care of that ASAP. Ocelot, how many combat teams do we have on deployment right now?”

“Six.” Ocelot counts on his fingers. “Pakistan, Chad, Angola, Sierra Leone, Myanmar, and Ukraine.”

“All scheduled to be back within?”

“Two days at the earliest, two weeks at the latest.”

Kaz frowns. “All right. Agama, work with Platypus and Frog. Everyone’s getting their physical early - and by early, I mean within the next thirty-six hours. Ocelot, I want all returning teams immediately quarantined. How many men do we have in Angola right now?”

“Six men, two women.”

Great, that’s at least another eight more infected.

Over the next twenty-eight hours Diamond Dogs turns into a festering nightmare. More and more infected turn up as Kaz’s eyes buzz. At least this confirms Quiet’s loyalty, if Skull Face gave up on her and turned to a new invasion method. Biological warfare, of all the fucking things. Turning their own recruits against them. Kaz could scream if he had the time for it.

The dog and pony show with Quiet in Room 101 isn’t necessary, even if she misbehaved. Far be it from him to tell Ocelot what to do in his kingdom, but the moment he sees her Kaz wonders just how necessary it was.

Quiet is massive and florid and pulsating. A sweet musk permeates the room, rousing his own infection to vague interest in some cross-species breeding. Kaz tastes bile in his throat, but the air itself tastes like rotten fruit. But there’s something different about her parasites, too.

Kaz squints and there it is, that little bit of something, a rocky island in the boiling sea of black.

Of course she tells them everything. It makes sense she never talks if these parasites are misophonic -rather,  _ misophilic  _ to that level of acuity. Kaz could laugh watching that fat swollen mess try to type if it wasn’t so pathetic. She splatters all over the floor soon after, terrified and reeking.

He snorts and turns on the airflow before leaving. Sends a message to medical to come and scrape her up.

There’s two more scheduled for Room 101 - those American doctors supposedly from Medecins Sans Frontieres. Course the chuckleheads don’t know how to cure the infection, but they’ve got no idea Quiet’s even here, let alone just told them exactly who created the parasites.

Supposedly the parasites really are just that sensitive to dialect. Kaz thinks of mysteriously burnt-out villages, of Silent Basilisk’s missing squad, and wonders. 

“So it’s languages, huh?” He taps his crutch, pacing. “Ocelot here speaks a good - what, twenty?”

“Seven,” Ocelot smiles. “Though I’ve been studying the Bantu family lately. You might do the same, Miller.”

“That’s what I pay translators for, Ocelot.”

“On base alone we’ve got about four different dialects. Eastern Kikongo, Kituba, Southern Kikongo, Ywembe…might behoove the commander to know what his soldiers say, don’t you think? Shouldn’t be too difficult to learn, either. Did you know Kikongo was one of the first Bantu tongues to be transliterated into Latin characters?”

“I read something about that.” Kaz ponders. “Wasn’t it the Capuchin missionaries who wrote the first Kikongo catechism?”

“Indeed. Guess how to say Ave Maria in Kikongo?”

“Geez, I wouldn’t know.”

“ _ Ave Maria. _ ”

“No bullshit? Wonder if it’s the same in Kituba. Funny how that works.” Kaz stops pacing to look at the prisoners. “Of course, you two wouldn’t happen to speak anything but English, huh? Typical Americans.”

“No wonder none of the recordings had English in them,” Ocelot muses. “Neither of you would happen to be Catholic, huh? I’d imagine you’d have to rub your knees raw hailing Mary if you were.”

“And I’d assume neither of you ever watched a zombie movie. Or, I dunno, danced a mambo.”

The man sucks in his lower lip, eyes flicking to his companion.

“Is that why she never talks?” Kaz nudges the woman.

Of course there’s an English strain - no, not so much a strain as a mother species. One for the Indo-European, one for the Dravidian, one for the Niger-Congo. Nobody told Quiet that one single word isn't enough to do it, that it takes a few weeks for it to properly incubate, but nobody told her either that all she had to do was learn Japanese.

What Kaz really wants to ask them is who sent Diamond Dogs that mission at Mfinda Oilfield, but Ocelot says it’s more important that they get to work treating the infected. There’s no time to ponder Quiet, either, not when the entire base has been serving as incubator for months and half his best guys are infected. Jade Tree Frog’s a nurse, of course she picked up Kikongo from her patients. And Agama’s pretty much Kaz’s megaphone on base. Practicing local languages is kind of necessary to his job. 

All over base patois have been creeping up - for all that Kaz demands a lingua franca, not everyone’s a fast learner. Kaz likes seeing them building tentative bridges out of pidgin, chuckling over mistaken hand gestures. It’s good for morale. Helps them adapt to being shanghaied to a offshore base in the middle of nowhere.

The last thing Kaz expected was for Skull Face to find a way to throw the whole damn melting pot into the fire.

If it all goes to shit, Kaz can revert to Japanese. That’d be a real treat, trying to teach Snake and a hundred Africans and Arabs and ruskies and god knows what one of the most unique and specialized languages in the world. 

The clouds still refuse to break. Mother Base stews and grows rancid while Kaz puts a complete gag order in place. They can do like the monks do until Code Talker shows up. When he and Ocelot need to talk to Snake, they shut off the airflow to the office and suffocate in their own rank sweat. Skull Face really doesn’t want them to get their hands on this guy, but Snake’s got his own giant plant monster on his side.

Quiet almost gets her dumb fat goopy ass killed out there trying to keep Snake safe.

The next few days are spent flying back and forth between the quarantine platform and medical. Contracts lie unsigned, the inbox fills up, pallets left wrapped up. If Kaz sleeps for more than ten minutes at a time, he doesn’t know it.

It works, though. The clouds finally break by the time the last man is incubated, and while the Wolbachia goes to work he finally sits his aching body down with Ocelot and Code Talker in the nurses’ break room on Med-3. Someone brings hot tea and crackers. Kaz can barely hold his mug steady.

Code Talker confirms what Kaz guessed about the Cobra Unit. Ocelot doesn’t bring up Quiet, though - whether this iteration is keeping his bioweapon a secret or not is anyone’s guess, but Kaz silently muses, watching rain drip down the windows. A psychic ghost guy - that explains those strange image flashes. A man who’d been set on fire - funny, how Snake said he’d dreamt her face before. Sometime in the inferno of the hospital. Figures that old XOF assassin would've been there, and Ocelot confirmed Snake was still hallucinating wildly when he picked him up. Maybe that other man on fire is a parasite too. 

Speaking of Quiet, she’s in the room right now. Actually quiet for once, gone still and silent around her maker. Where Quiet is a boiling swamp, Code Talker is a placid alpine lake. To continue the metaphor, Kaz supposes he’s just a puddle of dirty rain.

_ Shouldn’t you be in quarantine? _ That giant flower was limp and drooping by the time she came back from Africa.

No response.

That’s not Quiet. It’s nothing but a line of ants. One more Cobra confirmed, then. Snake never mentioned anything about the Boss herself having odd abilities, though.

They’re talking about Skull Face now. Frankly, Kaz doesn’t care much about what the maniac’s been up to. Tomorrow he’s going to board a chopper himself to pay him a visit.

“Well,” Ocelot says finally, “we’ve got a big day tomorrow. You ought to get some rest too, Miller.”

Kaz will. Just as soon as he makes sure their guest is settled in properly. He’s surprised when the old guy wants a burger, but every platform’s got a mess. No cook is currently on duty, but one exhausted surgeon was fixing up sandwiches for the anesthesiologists. Kaz snatches a few slices of tomato and lettuce leaves from the cutting board.

He hasn’t tried to cook in a long time, but he can sure use a spatula to flip a preformed patty over.Wrapping the assembled burger up in wax paper is tricky, but Kaz is almost proud of himself when he manages to get it done.

Code Talker thinks it could be better, but Kaz didn’t go to all this trouble just to talk about food. There’s a dim orange lamp in the break room, but the sun has already set. He turns off the lamp and sets his glasses beside the burger.

“I’m sure I don’t need to tell you what’s going on with my eyes.” 

“I see them,” Code Talker confirms. “Your glasses are strangely made, but letting them fester without getting a chance to truly grow only weakens the parasites. Already parts of your colony are reverting to a state of suspended animation.”

“Well, I’ve got no intention of turning into a plant.” 

“You might find the parasites could enhance your physical abilities.”

“Oh, yeah? I don’t see you walking.”

“I have been paralyzed for years. My children can do nothing about that, but I feel no pain. You, on the other hand, reject their assistance to live in agony. There’s no shame in accepting an offered hand.”

“Hey, I take my meds.” Kaz puts his glasses back on. “I’ve just got a few follow-up questions on what you did in the sixties. Do you know who led that unit of your experiments, back in the day?”

“Their commander was a legend, they said.”

“She was. And yet, she never showed signs of infection. Now you mentioned a method of using radiation to stop the parasites - and I’m sure you know the Boss herself was exposed plenty of times. But how was this radioactive woman able to work in a tight unit with a bunch of bioweapons, if her very presence could have killed them?”

“It does not kill. But the one that covers has a strong sense of self-preservation,” Code Talker says. “Their accelerated lifespan makes them especially vulnerable to radiation damage. But as I already explained, the Wolbachia is a safer treatment.”

“Cheaper, too. But see, I thought the average human got - what is it, three millisieverts annually? Even more if you happen to work in the medical industry or heavy manufacturing. Considering what we do on base, Diamond Dogs are probably getting more than the average dose. Hell, I’m from Japan. I might be the most radioactive man on base aside from Snake himself. So what aren’t you telling me?”

“Nothing more than what you refuse to tell me about that line of ants in the corner.” Code Talker says. “ A population of the parasites can mutate within hours. New species take over within days. I myself undergo radiation therapy monthly to slow the rate of growth. Otherwise -”

“The parasites would be chewing on your brain already.”

“Yes. But you already knew this.” Code Talker frowns, milky eyes thinning. “May I see your glasses?”

What about his glasses?

Some of the R&D team works with personal dosimeters. Kaz has never worn one for himself. He could go and grab one right now, but watching Code Talker’s odd glowing parasites turn orange is all he needs.

They were a coincidence. R&D must have already developed whatever fancy coatings long before he got captured. And there’s no way they would have made them specifically to keep his parasites in check because they wouldn’t have known Kaz would be infected. Because they would’ve had no freaking idea a bunch of parasite monsters were sticking their dicks in the commander and certainly wouldn’t have done something dangerous and stupid like sticking his glasses in uranium. 

Not a single member of the R&D team, at least.

“So you didn’t like the burger, huh?” Kaz picks up the unfinished patty gone cold. “Yeah, I think you’re right. It’s missing a little something.”

Tomorrow’s going to be a big day. Kaz needs a goddamn drink, first, and he needs a bite to eat himself, and then he needs to make sure Snake’s getting his own rest so he can go to OKB-0 and put a bullet in a certain skull.

The kitchen is empty now. Kaz digs around for the liquor stash he’s sure is somewhere in here and finds it tucked behind a five-gallon carton of canola oil. Cheap gin, suits him fine. His good leg is killing him too much to stand up again, but after the first mug he manages to get his ass up off the floor.

Right, he’s a total lightweight now. Time to build up a tolerance, then.

The first meal Kaz had in America was a greasy little patty smashed between soggy bread at the counter of a drive-in his father stopped on the way home from the airport. Kaz couldn’t even pronounce the word hamburger, dropping his r’s into something completely unintelligible, but he still remembers the fine-diced onions, the slick slice of melted yellow cheese.

Diamond Dog’s food order doesn’t have American cheese on the list, but the white cheddar ought to do. Maybe mozzarella, that’d be better for melting. He doesn’t have any fresh ground beef on hand but those same thawed-out patties, but maybe he can try to keep it juicier. Hell, Kaz knows where he can get some juicy lamb, tonight if he wanted.

The first two burgers aren’t quite it. Kaz pours another drink and keeps going. He can do this all night. Snake pings him on his iDroid; Kaz tells him he’s sleeping on medical tonight and it’s 0300 and Snake should have been asleep three hours ago, at least.

Quiet comes oozing out from under the stove.

“That’s a health code violation, you know.”

She doesn’t even care. She’s upset about something. Kaz is a little too drunk to figure it out, but those aren’t happy bubbles. Maybe she’s hungry. Flowers need extra fertilizer when they bloom, don’t they. In the gardens on support they use fish bone meal, blood, gull guano. Nitrogen and phosphorous. So much for Quiet never needing to eat, but she doesn’t care for his ground beef.

Parasites bristle around his glasses. What, can she not tell? The disembodied hand blisters around the frame when she yanks them off, but she doesn’t even look at the lenses. No, she just wants to see what’s going on with his eyes.

Kaz squints at her and a sudden white flash of rage takes him aback for a moment. Ah, so that’s what she’s so upset about.

“What? I figured it out when I saw you going full flower in Room 101. Keeps them quiet. Maybe you could finally learn something and put on some goddamn clothes for once. How’d you think Code Talker does it?”

She nearly drops his glasses right in a sizzling pan when she collapses in a pile of goop. Kaz watches chattering teeth form, a skull, until there’s half a naked woman on the floor. Nice tits, good work. Once upon a time, Kaz’s best asset was his body too, but she’s got her left and right arm swapped.

Kaz pours more gin while she scurries off and almost laughs when she comes back with a live rat. That’s real cute. Maybe Kaz will start making rat burgers.

He has no idea why she’s hanging around. The puddle flows up the counter to spread out. Yeah, the poor thing is definitely starving.

“Wanna learn how to cook?”

Hiss, buzz, whatever.

“You could stand to pick up a few skills, you know. Did you know Ocelot can’t cook to save his goddamn life? Can’t even make coffee without pissing in the pot. I don’t know how he’s alive either.”

She doesn’t care about Ocelot. That’s good. A quick steam, Kaz figures, ought to melt the cheese quickly without overcooking the patty. Quiet bubbles curiously, but still doesn't want to try it.

“It’s my fault, really," Kaz tells her. "I had nine years to teach him.”

Nine goddamn years and Kaz never taught him how to cook. They ate room service Ocelot picked at. Quick omelettes Kaz whipped up in the middle of the night while Ocelot pored over intel, dry rations in the field that tasted like the sand clinging to their lips. The first time Kaz saw him take his gloves off was to scoop lamb and rice up in his fingers beneath the red drapes of an oil sheik's tent. He'd stared for a moment too long. Felt those scars around his cock later that night.

Quiet drops another rat at his feet, gurgling happily as she dissolves the skeleton in an instant. Pretty nifty trick. Might come in handy around base. Sometimes a pair of ink-black tits or feet take shape while she splashes around. It's almost cute how hard she tries.

 

 

At 0730 the Vostok chirps. Kaz snaps his head up from a dining table, swearing when he remembers the deployment he's supposed to be coordinating right about now. Might as well mix some blow in the creamer powder. 

It's a hot mess. The white brat ends up sneaking on a chopper right under his nose and somehow Kaz himself ends up on a nine-hour flight with all his least favorite people. Ocelot's bright as a daisy, drinking black coffee from a paper cup and crossing his legs like the most demure little flower who definitely didn't jerk his skinny dick while Kaz got raped by his fancy research projects. Kaz would rather pass out in front of Huey than look at him. When they stop to refuel he ends up staring anyways at Ocelot bouncing around in his little boots on deck doing his stretches.

Why would Ocelot just tell him? Hey, I heard you got picked up by some real freaks. Don't take those glasses off.

For all that he tries, Ocelot isn't actually magical. He had nine years to murder Kaz only to shrug and say accidents happen when Snake woke up. He  _ told _ Kaz about his other mission, point blank. There's no good goddamn reason for Ocelot to lie about this. Chalk it up to insanity, maybe, but even Ocelot's more deranged habits have some kind of twisted logic. 

It doesn't matter right now.

Snake is what matters. Skull Face himself is what matters, and the more Kaz hears about what exactly he planned to do with his stolen parasites the more he wonders exactly how much money Ocelot's pulling in for this job until it all goes to hell. Snake's down there with nothing but his pet bug when the robot wakes up, Huey's freaking out, Ocelot acts like it was all in the plan, but Kaz has choppers with gatling guns and missile launchers.

Snake doesn’t panic. Doesn’t question it. Fights till dawn and makes it out alive and when he sees Kaz -

It doesn’t matter.

He lets Kaz direct his shots. Skull Face might as well be dead already. So what if there's another face Kaz is seeing when he pulls the trigger?

It doesn’t matter.

All that matters is getting the chopper crews coordinated to take Sahelanthropus back to base, and then all that matters is figuring out where the hell he’s going to fit that robot. Snake wants to kiss him like he tried to in the field, like there's some cause for celebration here, while Kaz thinks of his overflowing inbox. He lets Snake suck him off before they go to whatever Ocelot-approved party the staff wanted to throw. Kaz lasts all of five minutes, but manages to snatch a spare bottle of whiskey he can smuggle off to help break into that inbox.

There's some greasy bundles of wax paper on his desk. Kaz might have sent some unfortunate messages to R&D the other night he'd rather not look over. The burgers seem all right, though, even after sitting out for who knows how long. Supposed to be chock full of preservatives anyways. The one he tries is still lukewarm and not half-bad, especially when it's the only chaser to the awful whiskey.

Maybe Ocelot is hungry too. Kaz remembers to put on his hat and his coat before he goes back outside. The party's spread out all over command central by now, all the cliques and clubs having split off from each other. He finds Ocelot draped on a plastic chair behind the control rooms on Command-C with some navy twink on his knee and Echo and the Bunnymen on the radio. The kid might have great dick-sucking lips, but Kaz has a cold burger wrapped in wax paper. 

Ocelot dismisses the twink when Kaz comes clanking up to him. He needs to get his strength up for that blowjob anyways.

“What is this?” Ocelot’s peaceful and heavy-lidded when he’s stoned, even if he’s faking half the high.

“It’s a burger,” Kaz says. “For you. Eat it.”

“Hmm. I’ll pass.”

“No, you won’t. It’s really good.”

Ocelot sits up straight on the chair, back creaking, to contemplates the parcel Kaz drops in his lap. It's kind of greasy and sad-looking once he unwraps it, but it doesn't look inedible or anything. “Thanks, but I already had dinner.”

“Nothing wrong with second dinner. Stop counting calories for once and live a little.”

Maybe Ocelot realizes he owes Kaz one, because he sighs before picking up the burger and taking a careful, tiny bite. Grease drips on his red gloves. He chews slowly, washes it down with vodka that's probably secretly water. “Hm. Try heating it up next time, and I just might call that good.”

“Of course it's good. I made it.” Well, R&D made it according to his drunken specifications. Same thing.

“You’ve always been a decent cook." 

"I'm a great cook," Kaz snorts. "I could teach you, you know. It's easy. A baby could make rice."

"Do we have a shortage of cooks on base? Are we that desperate that the commander needs to put on an apron?" Ocelot's eyes thin when he smiles.

"Hey, I'm not the boss. Just head of, uh, base development. I can do whatever the hell I want." 

"Yes, you can." Ocelot wraps the burger back up neatly like he couldn't use an extra inch or two on that skinny little ass. Screw him - or rather, let the thirsty kid who thinks Major Ocelot will surely secure him a promotion handle that. 

Far away from Ocelot, some of the old guys from Thailand are fishing off the side of one of the helipads. Gecko and Bullfrog drag nets all day and that isn’t enough to kill the itch. Kaz thinks he gets it. It's real nice, sitting under the stars throwing lines to the darkness. He snatches some of their beers, makes up for it by offering his flask. Shows them how to really give the fish a spook by firing an entire magazine into the sea - solid grip, straight shooting, even if he can’t see the targets.

Everyone laughs. It’s great. Kaz drapes over a railing and pukes a little bit while Gecko slaps him on the back.

That hand is drifting awfully low for Gecko.

“Been working on your aim, I see,” Ocelot says smoothly, and Kaz could puke again.

Okay, so Kaz has had enough and wasting ammo under the influence is unseemly behavior for the base commander. Sure. Kaz lets Ocelot lead him to his quarters. Snake's long gone, probably off hugging his goats, so when Ocelot puts him to bed Kaz drags him right down on top of him.

Ocelot oofs, bracing both hands on the pillow as if Kaz is actually capable of knocking him off balance. That flush across his cheeks is as fake as his polite dismay when Kaz leans up to plant a kiss on his lips.

"Miller, you're drunk."

"Yep."

"Should I call Snake?"

"Nope." Kaz licks the sweat off his lips. Whatever aftershave Ocelot uses, Kaz recommends he change it. "I wanna tell you a secret."

"What, the true meaning of Pooyan?" Ocelot smiles wryly, pulling back, but he doesn't get off the bed.

"I don't like you."

"Thanks."

"No. I mean." Kaz swallows. "I don't like you as... a person. In general. You're weird, and disgusting, and the most bug-fuck crazy motherfucker I ever met and I don't even know what your real name is but you and me, we were partners. For nine _years_ while you lied through your teeth and, yeah, maybe I didn't trust you. Maybe I didn't like you. But I sure as hell believed in you. And that's why I'm gonna show you this.”

“What are you talking about?” 

“Take off my glasses."

"Miller -"

"Take them off!"

Ocelot actually does a double-take when he sees Kaz's eyes drip. Raises a hesitant curled finger, draws it back like he's terrified of touching it. "Is that..."

"Parasites. Yep."

"How long have you been like this?" he asks, then, softly: "Is it Quiet?" 

He's faking it.

Ocelot grabs him by the shoulder. Asks about Code Talker, about the treatment. Questions he already knows the answers to. Maybe he isn't faking it. Maybe he's deluded or insane enough to truly not know, and the man above him isn't any version of Ocelot he's met yet. There's a line Kaz could use to find out, but.

“Didn’t realize what it was until Code Talker showed up,” he says. "But I don't want this getting spread around base."

"Right." Ocelot presses fingers to his temple, runs them through his hair with a sigh. So concerned. "And Snake..."

"Exactly."

There's a hundred things he could say right now that would fix this. Major Ocelot heard the news but was busy trying to get Snake out alive. That he made a reasonable guess as to who might have captured Kaz, that intel sent the radio recordings to Cyprus, that he figured better safe than sorry, that something turned up while he was hospitalized.

"It's all right, though," Kaz tells him before he can try. "I talked to Code Talker about it. He's got, uh, some idea. Something he can do to my glasses to help me keep it under control."

"Your glasses?" Ocelot picks them up from where he left them on the pillow. The thin frame shakes in his fingers, and he doesn't fight it when Kaz yanks them away. Reaction times slowing already. "That's good," he says finally. "Wouldn't want..."

"What?"

Ocelot blinks half-lidded eyes and drags a finger across the arch of Kaz's left brow instead. To the end and back again, rubbing the hair the wrong way. His other hand, high on Kaz's right shoulder, slips down to the stump.

It hurts. Kaz doesn't move. Ocelot's hand moves up inside the sleeve of his undershirt. If he took his gloves off, he could rub the raised scars on his hands against the stiff lines across the stump. Kaz dully notes that his breath is coming shorter, that the right half of his body is burning, and stays completely still. 

Ocelot doesn't try to fuck him when he asks. Stops touching him when he tells him it hurts. Kaz has no idea how he's supposed to fall asleep to this - Ocelot, still straddling his waist, empty eyes refusing to leave his face.

Until the office door opens and Snake comes stumbling in. 

Ocelot's chest is heaving when he tears his eyes away from Kaz's. Snake smells like he's been smoking and looks like it, too, when he just leans against the door jamb to stare at them. 

"Where the hell have you been?" Kaz cuts through the silence.

"Lizards," Snake says after a beat. "I went to see the lizards. With Quiet." 

"Sounds nice.” Ocelot’s speaking smoothly again. “Miller here had a few too many. I'll just be on my way." He slips off Kaz and tries to glide right past Snake, but Snake grabs his arm with a red hand. 

"No. Stay."

"A little late for a meeting, Boss." But he pauses. Looks Snake up and down, looks back at Kaz. 

Yeah, it's obvious Snake has been disassociating again if he's been hanging out at the zoo. Kaz groans and pulls himself up on the bed a little. "Just come to bed, Snake."

Snake stares at Ocelot.

"Go to bed, Snake." 

Snake swallows. Twitches. 

And goes to bed. 

Ocelot's gone in a second. Looking a little twitchy himself. 

Snake sits down jerkily. Pulls his box of tapes out from under the bed and looks for the Isley Brothers. Summer breeze always makes him feel fine, and finally he flops down with a sweaty hand in Kaz’s hair. 

Kaz puts his head on Snake's chest and listens to his heart beat while he thinks about it.

A house divided against itself doesn't stand a snowball's chance in hell. Every business deal Kaz makes is brought to him by Ocelot's spies. Every operation is carried out by soldiers Ocelot trains. And every one of those spies and soldiers needs to be fed and outfitted. Supported in the field and given medical care on base. The reason why Diamond Dogs works, the reason why they can run a multibillion-dollar business with a sticky finger in every pie is because Ocelot and Kaz  _ work together. _

“We should tell Paz,” Snake says suddenly. 

“Huh?”

But before Kaz can ask him how his goats are doing, Snake keeps rolling with it. "She deserves to know Skull Face is dead. Maybe it'll help her."

"You wanna... you wanna say a prayer?" Is there a shrine Kaz doesn't know about?

"When was the last time you visited her? She'd probably like to see someone other than Frog and myself."

"Yeah. Yeah, I bet," Kaz says. "Hold that thought, Snake. I gotta take a piss." 

In the bathroom Kaz vomits red meat and booze until his throat burns. Leans back against the bathroom wall hugging his knee to himself. 

He just needs a minute. 

 


	5. THE TRUTH

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks [heavvymetalqueen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/heavvymetalqueen/pseuds/heavvymetalqueen) for reading through this ;A;  
> the hyperlink in this chapter leads to one of my supply drop fills. please consider clicking that.

“You’ve been keeping track of this?” Kaz tears his parasites back from the old photos Snake’s hunched over. His eyes are fat and happy in the morning mist, but the sun is rising.

“Yes, sir.” Frog draws a small notebook out of her breast pocket. Each episode is carefully noted in her cramped hand. The duration varies from anywhere between ten minutes to an entire hour Snake’s spent on the balcony talking to Paz. Maybe Chico’s there, too. Maybe they’re all playing fucking football on the beach together.

This is a pretty old journal Frog’s been keeping. Kaz flips back to the first page. There it is - after Ocelot’s concussion three years ago, when his eccentricities began to get truly worrying and Frog started carrying naloxone shots. Frog happily notes her raise. Flipping forward three years later, Ocelot’s episodes are still noted, albeit in less detail. Same old, same old, scattered between Snake’s like punctuation.

“Does anyone else know about this?” Kaz asks, handing it back.

“About…?”

“Everything in here.”

“Well, yes. Badger, one of the pharmacists. Platypus, head surgeon. Stag Beetle, staff psychiatrist, Chameleon, a nurse, pretty much all of the anesthesiologists - sir, I’ve -”

“Been following orders to the best of your ability. I understand.” Frog doesn’t work in a vacuum. “So what’s your typical procedure here? Show me.”

Frog steps warily out onto the slippery balcony. She folds her arms and peers in one direction, then another, as if the head nurse ever takes a turn on guard duty, before finally seeing Snake for the first time. “Good to see you, Boss,” she says brightly, and salutes.

Snake drags his head up to stare at her.

“How’s your friend doing?”

“Same as ever.” 

“Sorry to interrupt, but we just had a report come in from conservation.” She pulls out her standard-issue iDroid and shows him what looks like a recently published journal on infectious diseases of the lower intestine. “See, Marshmallow’s been a little listless lately. The vet isn’t sure what’s wrong with her, but she isn’t eating much, either.”

Snake tilts his head at the display. “Marshmallow?”

“Yeah. If you could check in on her… we’d hate to have another outbreak on base. Of any kind.”

“All right, Frog. I’ll get right on that.”

“Permission to come along, Boss? I’m no vet, but I can run a few tests.”

“Yeah. Yeah, sure.” Snake staggers to his feet. He blinks down at the photos lying on the grating before leaping down from the balcony. Frog scoops up the photos and takes the stairs.

“Do you want -”

Kaz shakes his head. “Keep them.”

Frog calls in one of the old Bell 206s that came with the oil rig, and Snake spends the short jerky flight staring out the window. He seems to know exactly where he’s going once they land, though, and Kaz follows him and Frog to the goat pens.

All of the goats know him by now. They come straight up to him, bleating, and Snake just sinks to his knees and lets them nudge his pouches where he has a hidden Caloriemate. Kaz has heard that Marshmallow is the one with the fluffiest butt, but they all look pretty fluffy. One bleats and feints a headbutt. Snake laughs out loud and grabs her into a hug.

Kaz stays on the catwalk right above the pen. He’s not getting his ass handed to him by a goat.

“So now what?” he calls down, and Frog looks up and shrugs.

“Just wait. Usually I’d call Ocelot, but you’re here.”

Surely Ocelot knows how to handle this situation. Snake lies down in the grass and starts puffing on his cigar. Puts some tape in his Walkman and chuckles when a goat tries to chew on his headphones. Frog's got better things to do than stand around petting goats. Kaz beckons her back up the stairs.

“Yes, sir?”

“Next time this happens, call me immediately.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did Ocelot tell you to keep this from me?”

Frog stares.

“Maybe he didn’t use those words. Maybe he said, he’s better qualified than me to handle him when he gets like this.”

“I’m... not a psychiatrist, sir.”

“Neither is he. He doesn’t even know who Paz was. Next time, you call me first. Sure, if Snake wants to go see his pets, far be it from you to stop him. But I don’t want you walking off a shift anymore just to watch him trip out. You’ve got more important things to do.”

“Apologies, sir.”

Kaz sighs when he sees the way she bites the inside of her lower lip. “All right, what’s the but?”

She winces. “I was led to believe he was a high-priority patient. A… special case.”

“You mean like when Ocelot OD’s.”

Yes, that’s exactly what she means.

“I don’t mind doing it,” she says hastily. “He’s gotten much calmer over time. I kind of relate, if you know what I mean.”

“No. I don’t.”

“I’ve lost patients before myself.” She frowns, looks like she changes her mind about whatever she might say next. “Things happen in the field. You’ve got four guys bleeding out of their guts, but only three tourniquet kits left. Personally, I tried to base those decisions on rank. Didn't always work.” She shrugs, scraping back a piece of damp hair.

Kaz swallows thickly. “You should’ve seen him when he found out he could just call in supply drops for that kind of situation.”

“Sir -”

“What?”

“If you’re going down there… he can get a little stubborn sometimes.” She pulls out her sidearm. Tranq rounds.

“He won’t hurt me,” Kaz decides, and climbs down the steps. Nearly sets his crutch in a pile of goat shit.

Venom Snake takes off his headphones and leaves them sitting around his neck. It’s one of his older tapes; Kaz could recognize Marvin Gaye’s voice anywhere.

“So this is that goat you keep talking about, huh?” Kaz reaches out to carefully pat one of them on the head. “What’s her name again?”

“Marshmallow.”

“One hell of a name.”

“She’s just a goat, Commander.” He shrugs. “Quick. Think of something white and fluffy.”

“...Cloud?”

“That one’s Cloud.” He points at another one. Very white, very fluffy.

Kaz can see his face now, beneath the stitches. This isn’t shock, though. More like deja vu. An old dream about the muffled sound of Mo-Town in the jungle. He checks the grass before sitting down. “You know Marvin Gaye died recently,” he says, nodding to the Walkman.

“Shot in the heart by his own father. I heard about it on the radio.”

“I remember - might have been his first album. You put it on at one of the birthday parties and taught me how to boogaloo.”

“Nah, couldn’t have been me. I don’t dance.” He chuckles.

“You do when you’re drunk.” Kaz grins. “Never thought a big guy like you could put on the moves like that. I’m pretty sure everyone in the MSF wanted a piece of you, back then.”

“No. No, I wasn’t - I was their commander.”

“True. Anyways.” Kaz pulls out his iDroid. The mist blurs the display a little. “Blackfoot went down around twenty miles south of Lufwa Valley. All contact lost. I want you to head out with DD, see if you can sniff out any survivors. I’m putting an extra medkit in your loadout.”

“Right.”

“See, I’d send out a full team, but there’s heavy CFA patrols in the area. Besides, this isn’t bringing in the money to justify that expense. Find our boys, take care of the wounded, and bring them home.”

“Got it.”

He stands up, brushing grass and goat hair off his fatigues. Just like that, Snake is back. Kaz stays in the goat pen long after he leaves, stroking Marshmallow’s damp hair while poring through his iDroid.

He’s got a lot to think about. Two South African warheads have been found in Angola. The Peace Corps wants to borrow a mine clearance team. Barnacles are corroding one of the struts between combat platforms. The new field commander of Rogue Coyote is growing bitter to Kaz and Major Baker’s merger. Normally he’d send Snake out to put a bullet in his head, but -

Then again, Snake will be deploying in that area anyways.

Ocelot picks him up just in time for lunch. He likes the newest burger more than Code Talker does. Eats an entire half of one and slips the rest to DD.

Kaz takes his second burger back to his quarters.

The general director of DICON wants to outsource to Doghouse Arms Development. Kaz agrees, too many PMCs have been destroying munitions factories in Nigeria. He balances the phone between his ear and shoulder, scribbling plans for the expansion the general director will be paying for, while parasites glide through his old diary.

He hasn’t written in it in a long time. Since - well, since Ghwandai. Suddenly the inner recesses of his mind just didn’t seem worth cataloging. 

It's kind of a shame; he's been keeping a diary ever since he realized only an orderly mind could run an orderly business. This one covers ‘76 to early ‘84. The odd drunken ramble about Snake appears on the edges of Harberger’s triangles and Gantt charts at first, but soon turn to his private worryings about the logistics of moving an entire camp of freedom fighters through mountainous terrain, the SAS general’s wife Kaz really shouldn’t have fucked, the rise and fall oil prices, and Ocelot.

There’s a few different iterations of Ocelot he’s met, all chronicled here. Kaz ends the call with a kiss and a promise, pulls back his parasites, and pulls up his diary.

Ocelot the first: Baseline Ocelot. Slimy fucker with a cowboy fetish. Walked into the sandinista camp and told Kaz he was the final loose screw, and if he didn’t pull his ass together Ocelot would kill him before Cipher even had a chance. Ended up saving his ass, of course.

Ocelot the second - definitely Shalashaska. Started playing Russian Roulette with the arms dealer in Dubai. The odds were two to twelve, but Ocelot pulled it off with a single reload and had a rock-hard boner when he dragged Kaz out from under the coffee table. Kaz was fully prepared to get his ass torn apart right there in a room of rapidly cooling blood, but a third Ocelot came out sometime after their daring escape.  


This one was quiet. Kaz thinks this might be the same one he met again in 1981, when Kaz learned about hypnosis for the first time and Ocelot gave him a key. Whenever he was lost, a few lines of his mother tongue would be all Kaz needed to reach him.

There’s another Ocelot he never met face to face. When Zero first introduced him to the network of the Patriots, his contact in Lubyanka spoke with the slightest Russian accent. Lubyanka Building was the tallest in the Soviet Union, they said. Clean view of Siberia even from the basement. One of their top interrogators would later be dispatched to Afghanistan.

This might be the one who gave him the shitty watch.

Kaz stops at a page he thought would be blank. But there’s the date, ten days after he got out of medbay. His left hand was still illegible. Kaz was swamped with work, drifting in and out of medicated hazes, but the last line stands out.

_Reminder: Ask Ocelot for help w/dreams._

There’s more.

March 13rd, 1984 doesn’t even sound that drunk on the re-read. March 28th is entirely in Japanese and definitely drunk.

Yeah, he’s known the truth for a long time.

There’s a reeking open bottle of gin on his desk. Kaz screws on the lid and tucks it in a drawer. Crumples up the empty burger wrappers and throws those in the bin, too. Parasites sort through the detritus on his desk and the floor around it, guiding his hand, and when his workspace is finally clean and sorted Kaz pushes up his shades, picks up a pen, and writes a new entry.

He’s got to be sober, now.

 

 

The current flavor of Ocelot decides to give DD a bath on the loading dock of BD-01 while Kaz is trying to receive an order of dry goods.

“You know that’s a pressure washer, right?” he finally snaps. “We use it to spray seagull shit off the dock. You trying to kill him?”

“Red means zero,” Ocelot says, holding up the wand. Good, he found out about the settings.

“Or you could just take out the hose.”

Ocelot looks at the wand, back to the pressure washer, and back to the wand.

“Have you ever used a pressure washer in your life? Jesus. It’s behind the engine. Lower. Turn off the water before you -”

Oh no, Ocelot didn’t turn off the water, and now he’s completely soaked. Silly wet cat fumbling with a rubber hose because he’s never used power tools in his life. Maybe Kaz should take a break to help him out. He hands his clipboard to Mastodon, leaves coordinating the forklifts to Penguin, and takes the folding chair Kangaroo brings out for him to watch while DD shakes droplets all over his trench coat.

“So which one’s your favorite?” Kaz asks him. “Between the boss’s two pets.”

Ocelot wipes suds off his cheek before DD can lick them off. “Got to admit, I’m a little biased.”

“He slept with you when he was a pup, didn’t he?”

“Not in the bed.”

“Liar. I remember how you two used to cuddle. I also remember the headset I had to replace after he chewed it up.”

“You were always immune to the charm of the puppy pads.”

“I dunno. I think I’d take DD over the plant zombie bitch these days.” Kaz hunches his shoulders, leaning forward a little. “You think Snake’s fucking her yet?”

“Quiet?”

“You see how she walks around. Flashing her tits everywhere, the way she _looks_ at him. There’s no way she hasn’t made a move yet.” Sometimes Kaz forgets the way she looks to everyone else on base.

Ocelot turns the hose back on for one last rinse. “You and Snake been having trouble?”

“If you can call it that. You should hear him these days. All gone on some kind of a new free-love philosophy.” He grins at Ocelot suddenly. “Can’t complain, though, can I?”

“Suppose you’re free to make your rounds among the female staff again.” The towel draped around his shoulders is already soaked, but he doesn’t seem to notice when he starts drying DD off. “You know, all that phantom pain’ll give you extra pity points. Start with medical.”

Very funny. “I’m not thinking about the nurses.” There’s no way Kaz can play seductive anymore, but blunt always worked best with Ocelot. “I was thinking something a little more nostalgic.”

Ocelot blinks, looking up his pointy nose.

“When’s the last time we screwed, huh?”

“Can’t quite recall. We were pretty far under the influence, I’ll bet.”

“Any of your little navy boys eat your ass the way I did?”

“Miller,” Ocelot chuckles. “Give it a rest.”

DD doesn’t like being roughed up with a towel. He squirms and scampers off to get his pats from the receiving team, leaving Ocelot crouching with a damp towel in his hands. It’s a good forty-five seconds before Ocelot stands up, shakes out the towel, and strides off.

Somehow Kaz doubts the good dogfather knows where the real Snake is. He’s definitely planted a seed - or watered a dead plant, or pulled a weed, Kaz has no idea how the metaphor for the festering jungle that is Ocelot’s mind works - as he runs into some version of Shalashaska the very next day. Target practice draws him out to simper about how Kaz still has a bit of flinch.

Quiet’s a fine enough trigger. Referencing his past relationship with Snake is even better.

It’s good to see Shalashaska again. Good to get his crutch kicked out from under him and get slammed up against a supply container. Just like old times.

Quiet’s behind the supply container, digesting and snooping as always. She prods at him, wondering - what? Does she want to know what Ocelot did to him? Sure, she can get a peek. Seems to spook her pretty good.

When he shoves Ocelot off the man looks dizzy. He reaches a hand, but Kaz is actually faster than him for once.

Quiet's a good idea, though.

The thing is, most Diamond Dogs have little to no idea who Snake actually was. A top secret mission between two superpowers didn’t actually make front page news in a East African warzone. Huey knew them both, sure, but he spends all day cringing with his robots. It’s Quiet who spends more time with the medic than anyone else, and the woman she was before knew damn well who Big Boss was.

Is that why she always seems so scared?

For all that Quiet’s mind is going haywire trying to keep the one that covers at bay, she doesn’t want the suit. The medic gets gutshot on a mission, dear Sniper Quiet shows unprecedented field medicine skills, and then the idiot jumps into chlorine gas just trying to make him smile. Chokes and sputters in a flushing tank for days.

She’s known it for a long time, too.

Of course Ocelot has a private office on the intel platform outside the vast network of eyes on base. Kaz respects his privacy. 

The bugs he gives Quiet are brand-spanking new from R&D, modeled off her very own skin samples. The little parasite robots are sensitive to light, sound, invisible to the naked eye, and can disperse and scatter to collect information while still operating as a single unit. The wireless network can be linked right to Kaz’s iDroid.

He waits until Ocelot disappears to go “take back OKB-0” or “ride secret stinky Snake cock” or whatever the hell before activating them.

Wherever the real Snake is, he doesn’t have an iDroid. The radio equipment is rather old-fashioned compared to R&D’s finest. The drugs are to be expected, but the real treasure is the boxes upon boxes of tapes.

Kaz brings one box back to his office and clears his schedule for the night.

 _John_ and _Adam_ don’t talk much about him at all. He pulls out the gin and considers whether it would be better or worse if they did. Takes his first long pull in days and decides he doesn't give a damn either way.

Somebody disobeys direct orders to knock at the door.

“What is it?”

“Sir, it’s Thunder Gecko. There’s been an accident.”

One of the ESL teachers? Kaz hides the bottle and opens his iDroid to some bullshit. “Come on in.”

“It’s Ralph, sir.”

The kid is in hospital already, but the prognosis isn’t good. Severe head trauma, internal bleeding.

It was just a broken pipe.

A single broken fucking pipe that Kaz would have caught if he hadn’t forgot a fucking routine safety inspection because he was too busy obsessing over this _shit._

“Keep me updated,” he says finally. “You’re dismissed.”

Kaz takes out the current tape and tears out the ribbon. Crushes the plastic in his hand. Takes another drink, spills some on himself when his iDroid rings. Snake wants to know if he wants a bunch of discarded Blowpipe MCLOS missiles, as if Kaz hasn't diverted millions to missile guidance technology just to revert to trusting dipshits with joysticks. Maybe he can pass them off to the Somalis, in which case Snake better work out that contract himself because Kaz kind of has a triple helping of shit on his plate right now, an whole all-you-can-eat buffet of shit -

"Sorry," he says, catching himself.

"I'll Fulton them in anyways," Snake says after a long moment. "We'll find some use for them."

Snake straps a balloon to the storage containers. The guard post is already emptied out. Kaz isn't sure if Snake shot them or tranqed them, but must be nice out there in the desert all on his lonesome. Kaz bets he can see all sorts of stars. His mic is still hot, picking up the sound of his cigar puffing and his dog sniffing.

"Hey, Kaz?"

"Yes, Snake?"

"Is Ocelot there?"

"No, Snake."

"There's a funny looking flower here. I was hoping he could tell me about it."

"Well, why don't we ask the other plant about it?"

Quiet seems surprised to be summoned to the command office. She sludges in actually quiet for once. Kaz puts on her favorite Prince tape and leaves Snake to her while he reads through Ralph's updates from Platypus. The planned FOB expansion. Floor plans of those Nigerian warehouses. Ocelot left notes for him about a training exercise he would have carried out, if only the Motherland hadn't called him away. A new message comes in from a returning chopper. Kaz smiles, puts down his iDroid, and pulls out the cocaine.

Quiet's not too bad to party with. Kind of funny when her parasites start sizzling from the blow. Even funnier when she acts like she's got something to prove to him. She tastes like rotten fruit. Freak. 

Commander Quiet? That'd be a riot. He might as well leave the base to her once he's dead. She'd be real good at safety inspections, he bets. She's already killing it on pest control.

By the time Ocelot opens the door, Kaz is drunk enough that he's ready to die. Ocelot doesn't even have the courtesy to act like he's surprised.

“Here he is!” Kaz raises a bottle that's already empty. “Good old Major Ocelot. How was Afghanistan, huh? Got anything good for me?”

“Got yourself a girlfriend, Miller?”

Quiet doesn't want to stick around for this shit. Good for her. There's red dust clinging to Ocelot's boots, and his feet are light. He crouches by the couch, tilting Kaz's head back. 

“ _Kono nishin no souji,_ ” Kaz tells him.

Ocelot doesn’t move. Doesn’t finish the line.

“You told me - you promised me. Anytime I needed to reach you.”

“I’ve made a lot of mistakes with you, Miller.”

“You don’t make mistakes.”

“Am I going to regret them?”

“You've never regretted anything in your goddamn life.” Kaz wipes snot and cocaine from his lip.

Ocelot smiles and runs a hand through his hair while the other holds a needle to his neck. There's nothing, absolutely nothing Kaz can do to stop him. Nothing he could possibly say. 

"Go on," he finally tells him. "Do whatever the hell you've been doing. Make me forget already."

"Miller..."

"Do it!"

But Ocelot pulls back his hands and says, "I've never once doubted your intelligence."

Is he joking? Kaz was dumb enough to try to outplay the man who wrote the playbook. He punches him in the jaw just because he can. Just because Ocelot does jack all to avoid it. No, he's just sitting here, watching Kaz flail with the patience of a hunter. Like he's been doing this entire fucking time, ever since Kaz met him, ever since the man from Lubyanka first picked up the phone.

And he doesn't pull the trigger because - 

“...What’s the _or?_ ”

Ocelot rubs a thumb down his cheek. “Or you decide you want to play on the winning team for once.”

Oh.

Kaz could be thinking of a Colombian jungle, but instead he thinks of the Caribbean sea. Nine years ago three men died, but three were pulled from the water.

That's not right. The medic was already dead. Wherever the real Snake is, he might as well be fucking dead already, too. 

The third man, though. Kaz thought whatever was left of him got chopped to pieces in Ghwandai, but he’s still here. In his binders and ledgers and in every line of his charts. In every operational budget worked out and crunched down to the very last penny, in every rotation mapped down to the second. Screw _bushido_ , all he knows is _fukoku kyohei,_ because a poor nation makes for a poor army and no matter what Snake thought Kazuhira Miller was never a goddamn samurai to begin with, and yes, he's still alive. 

What the hell kind of a question is that anyways?

Ocelot pushes him back when he kisses him, but there's a smile crinkling the corners of his lips. “Is that a yes?”

“Yes.”

“I've been waiting a long time to hear you say that.”

"Oh, I bet. I bet you were reading my diary, too. I bet you've been - "

Ocelot holds up a finger. Reaches inside his coat, to some inner pocket, and pulls out a gold Rolex Milsub.

The Komandirskie gets tossed to the floor. Kaz falls silent while Ocelot fastens it around his wrist. It's almost uncomfortable now, clunky and gaudy, but it feels right. It looks right, too. Cleaned and polished, still keeping perfect time. The gleaming face rises like the harvest moon when Ocelot brings his knuckles to his lips.

"You've had it? This whole time?"

"I told you I've been waiting."

Now Kaz really is going to cry. It doesn't matter if only Ocelot's there to see it.

"Why are you laughing?"

“My dad didn’t give that to me, you know. I stole it from his study night before I went back to Japan. Told myself - hah. Told myself no one would even notice it was missing from the old fat cat's collection. That I wasn’t going back to Japan with nothing more than a shitty piece of paper. For all I know, this was my dead brother's watch."

Ocelot won't stop smiling. "I think we've got a lot to tell each other, Miller."

"Get some coffee started, will you?" 

 

 

 

“Wait, wait,” Kaz interrupts. John's adventures in the Kalahari are thrilling and all, but. “If you’re going to tell me the truth, use your real voice.”

Ocelot blinks. “My real voice?”

“The man from Lubyanka? He sure as hell wasn't a cowboy.”

“I see.” Ocelot gets up from beside the couch. Spins Kaz’s office chair around and takes a seat. “When I was a child, [someone told me a story.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13024110) Would you like to hear it?”

“...What's it about?”

“Pretty typical Western. A lone gunslinger finds himself the new sheriff in town. A wildcat who walks and talks like a man - bit of a Puss in Boots rip-off, if you ask me, but to this day it’s considered a classic.”

It’s a real radio drama, with different voices for each character and sound effects. Ocelot gallops his fingers on his knees, snaps his fingers and shouts BANG for the gunfire. Sheriff Wildcat busts through the saloon doors, tumbles between the bullets and twists the corrupt mayor’s neck between two clawed hands. He hangs the cattle thieves by their testicles, disembowels the train robbers in the streets. The lawless town is transformed, and Sheriff Wildcat gets a shiny gold star-shaped pin.

Everyone gets a different voice, but Sheriff Wildcat’s is very familiar.

“Okay, okay, time for an intermission,” Kaz says after the saloon burns. "But tell me the rest later, all right?" 


	6. BLANK TAPES

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is chapter "you already know what happens if you've read True Hallucinations".

The funeral for Ralph will be held at sunrise. It’s bad enough Kaz will be showing up hungover and underslept - then again, not uncharacteristic for a man deep in grief.

Showing up sporting a brand new arm would just be tacky.

A fresh pot of coffee drips from the small percolator in the office. Kaz sits up on the bed when Ocelot brings him a mug. Burnt and bitter, the way Ocelot always makes it. It doesn't make looking at those open cases on the floor any easier.

The bionics are smooth and powder-coated silver, completely unlike the double's bright and clunky arm. And they’ve just been sitting here, stashed behind the old receipts and boxes and empty liquor bottles under his bed. This whole goddamn time.

Ocelot’s waiting for him to say something.

“...How much did those cost you?”

Ocelot smiles. He was expecting that. “I don't remember.”

For that matter, what is the price of loyalty? He can imagine Snake saying some crap like that after he found out Kaz didn’t break. After he heard what had been done to him. Snake is only a small stepping stone, one Ocelot fully intends to crush under his bootheel. He doesn't matter anymore.

“They’ll have to be refitted anyways,” Ocelot continues, crouching to pick up the arm. Kaz is still naked, stumps on full display, and he can tell Ocelot's making minute calculations in his quick glance. “You’ve gained some weight, and -”

“Put that thing down.”

Ocelot slowly sets it down.

“Get those out of my sight.”

Ocelot clicks the slim black cases shut. “If you’re not ready for them -”

“Of course I’m ready to tie my shoes and get up the stairs, but I mean..." 

Right now Kaz knows things that put Zero in a vegetative state. That not even Eva, who is apparently ensuring South Africa _gives up_ their nuclear arms, knows, and the way Ocelot put it she won’t be around for much longer. “I can’t do that here. Not yet. There’ll be too many questions.”

“Would it surprise Diamond Dogs that much if their commander learned to take care of himself?”

“Have you seen me?”

Ocelot frowns. "Take the leg, at least."

“And I've still got a couple more questions for you, too," Kaz snaps.

“Then ask them.”

Kaz sets his coffee on the floor and pats the bed beside him. Ocelot sighs and sits down. At least he's keeping his boots off the bed.

There's a hell of a lot of things Kaz could ask him. _Wh_ _y,_ perhaps _._  Not the ten days he spent in Ghwandai, he gets that. He knows exactly who that Cipher spy is and he knows damn well why he’s still alive.

That's not quite the question, though, is it? He can understand why Ocelot is so determined to destroy the Patriots. There’s an irony in that Kaz can appreciate. All the world’s greatest powers fighting over his heritage, only for that genetic superweapon to backfire in their hands and die without issue. Very funny. 

It could be revenge. Could be some dogged sense of fate. Could even be that some version of Ocelot is so committed to whatever ideal of human liberty that the thought of controlling soldiers - no, even civilians - with nanomachines makes him sick. But Ocelot is neither a capitalist nor a communist. The only thing he believes in is himself. 

Kaz believes in him, too. If anyone could pull this off and change the world, it's Revolver Ocelot. 

“What happens _after_ all of this?” he asks instead. "You've got your mission. You've got your big plans. But what happens next?"

Ocelot gives him a curious look. “By the time this is over, I imagine I’ll be a very old man.”

“You can’t burn down the world without building a new one - or at least, laying down some kind of groundwork. That’s where the anarchists always go wrong.”

Ocelot shrugs, drumming his fingers on his knee. “Forest fires are a necessary part of the ecosystem, Miller. Clearing out decaying vegetable matter makes way for new growth to take place. In fact, the resulting forest is often richer in biodiversity than the old one.”

“Yeah, I know.” Kaz picks up his coffee again. “After a fire, mushrooms are one of the first things to spring back. The mycelium goes to work almost immediately restoring the soil.”

“Things kept long underground suddenly spring to life."

"That happens every year, fire or not." A better question would be why Ocelot's coffee always tastes like shit. "In fact, the morel mushroom in particular fruits especially well in areas recently burned. They're considered a delicacy in the West. You ever tried them?”

“Never.”

“You should, sometime. I’d like to try them myself.”

“Should we make a special request on the mess order?”

“I’m just saying. You’ve spent all these years planning for what comes, and never given a thought to what comes next. I'd ask you if you were insane if I didn't already know the answer to that. But you’re only one man. If these AIs are so advanced, and so all-powerful, how the hell do you think you can trick them? And while I'm at it, how the _hell_ do you expect to be running this vast conglomerate of PMCs without the Patriots finding out?”

“I am one highly capable man, Miller."

"Sure, but you're not fucking magic."

"No such thing as magic. Only top-notch technology and highly specialized training." Ocelot might be smiling, though. "On the other hand, though, I've picked up enough business tactics from you to admit you might be right.”

“You want a business partner?”

“I don’t need you for this, Miller," he says quickly. "You can walk away from it all if you like. You’re hardly a target worth hunting down, and there is nothing you could possibly do to stop me from my goals. But if you're willing, I’d like to have you.”

He doesn't say he could just hypnotize Kaz into forgetting this whole night. They both know it.

“Hmm." Kaz pretends to mull it over. "Sounds like a pretty long game you’re playing here.”

“Yes.”

“Sounds like I’m gonna be spending a hell of a long time with you.”

“If you want to.”

“Do you really think I’m gonna let you to do this all by yourself?"

"Since when do you _let_ me do anything?"

The coffee spills when Kaz laughs. "I just want one thing, though. Right here, between us, behind this door. This is where the bullshit stops.”

“You've got it,” Ocelot says. Simple as that.

Now Kaz can kiss him again. The Rolex says there’s still fifty-five minutes till the funeral. Ocelot takes off his boots this time, revealing gnarled and knobbed feet that belong to a man twice his age. Kaz has seen them before, but never while Ocelot was riding his dick. It's different, all right. Strange how he still feels like he's barely scratched the surface of all that is Ocelot, but it hardly matters when he's inside of him. 

Ocelot doesn't stand too close at the funeral. Kaz has no trouble at all delivering a speech over the child's ashes.  

After all that mess, he brings a stack of staff requests he’s been neglecting and a deck chair out to watch Ocelot run recruits through fartlek runs around C-2. Anyone requesting a transfer can go to the D.H. Arms factory, and the kids can go to conservation platform for a week or two while they grieve. They don’t mind scooping up animal poop, hell, they clamor for a chance to get closer to the goats. Must be a nice reminder of what their lives were like before it all went to hell and shrapnel.

All but Eli. Excuse him if he doesn’t exactly trust Snake’s clone around Mother Base’s special pets.

Speaking of special pets, there was something he forgot to tell Ocelot.

Kaz nearly drops his pen when his parasites pick up on Quiet. Watching him right now, even, oozing and bubbling as she devours an unlucky gull impaled on a satellite antenna. She's in a good mood today. She can smell Ocelot on his skin, and Kaz can sense the mocking judgement even from here. 

She doesn’t know the half of it and it’s still too much.

 

 

How do you kill something that’s already dead?

Trick question; you don’t.

In the folklore of Haiti, in the various odd diasporic interpretations of Vodou, a _zombi_ is just like any other trapped soul unable to move on to the afterlife. The difference is that unlike the shambling things of horror movies, they’re controllable. A skilled _houngan_ or _bokor_ may use them for good or evil. Typically they're used for fieldwork, and the whole thing might not even be real in the first place, but it's an idea. 

Either that or Kaz could dig his parasites out of his eyes and go blind.

He doesn't have any pufferfish poison on hand, but the bugs he gave Quiet to plant in Ocelot's room are half the job already done. They communicate via chemical signals rather than radio, rather like trees in a forest. Too subtle even for most biosensors to pick up, and even then anyone intercepting would need the exact same species of parasite to interpret the signal.

A highly advanced biosensor, though, one that’s been tested and developed on scrapings from Kaz’s eyes and Quiet’s skin, though, means it can be picked up on his iDroid. Sure, the range is limited, but even Quiet’s own iDroid can already be remotely controlled by Kaz. 

He’ll play it safe. The double will understand if his little girlfriend is “decommissioned” and spend more time with his dog. And if it all goes haywire in the field, she’ll be very far away from any secrets.

Getting Quiet on board could be the hardest part, but she ends up delivering herself on a silver platter. Asking about that parasite suit again. All the dumb beast took away from the  _encounter_  she witnessed was that she was free to make a move on the body double. Kaz carefully keeps his mind blank while she gestures. 

A new suit, maybe? Something stylish. Black and sleek, yeah, just like -

_a child with a fresh scrapes on her knees, pressed too close to a television screen_

\- like Catwoman. Yeah.

He didn't forget that she was once human.

Not for much longer, though. While her mind sleeps, she’ll be kept under a 12-12 light cycle. Long enough to let the flower bloom and devour any trace of the woman left. Maybe Ocelot will be able to appreciate this irony, too.

This room is on the third subfloor of the wing devoted to the parasites. Hermetically sealed cold storage for some metallic archaea samples, Silent Harrier’s scrapings, Silent Basilisk's Dravidian, some Wolbachia cultures just in case. Moth is D-rank, little more than a janitor trusted to not accidentally break test tubes, and Jade Tree Frog knows to keep her mouth shut when it comes to Quiet. They set up a hydroponic ebb-and-flow tray for her to lie in, red lights, clean recycled air. Just like the flowering room on support. 

“The idea here,” he tells Quiet once she’s cozy in her tray, “is to put _you_ back in charge of your parasites. The suit will help you control them. Just like my glasses, you know?”

She knows.

“In order to do that, though, we need to set up a neural network interface. There’s three different connections going on here - the suit, your parasites, and your brain. By inducing a flowering stage, we'll be able to program the active biochemicals into the communications network." 

She doesn’t even question it. E-rank in R&D, for sure.

"What I'm saying is, we're gonna have to put you under."

Can he get on with it already? Kaz flinches when she nudges at him.

Yes, he can. He checks the timers one last time before he leaves, and all there’s left to do is wait.

Kaz locks the door behind him, then pauses at a familiar creaking sound. There’s a bend in the hallway just up ahead, and the idiot trying to hide from him thinks Kaz can’t see the shadow he casts.

“Who gave you permission to be here?” he barks, and Huey comes cringing out with his hands raised.

“Ah, I was just looking for -”

“This isn’t even your wing. Or do I need to remind you of your position here on base?”

“I come by here all the time! I need radiation treatment for the metallic archaea,” Huey explains, dithering. “In my legs. You know… when you guys…”

“No. I don’t know.” Huey didn’t have strong enough thighs to resist that needle. Kaz stalks closer to him, conscious of the weight in his new leg. “I haven’t seen a single special request form about that on my desk. I’m gonna ask you one more time. Who gave you permission to be here?”

“It - it was Code Talker! He said I could come down here anytime! I was trying to find him for my treatments!”

“Code Talker, huh? When did he get promoted?”

“I thought -”

“Is Code Talker the base commander now? Does his word outweigh the Boss’s now? Because I sure as hell never heard about the change of hands. And I know damn well Ocelot didn’t.”

“But -”

“Because he would’ve _told me._ ”

The last line is delivered at spitting’s distance. Huey turns his head, pressing his cheek flat against the wall. Like Kaz was going to hit him or something.

Kaz curls up his lips and pulls out his iDroid.

“Wait a second - hold on, hold on!”

“Commander Miller?” Ocelot sounds chipper as ever.

“No, no, no, not him! I swear, on my -”

“Caught Huey sneaking around on R&D. I’m a little tied up myself - think you could come and handle this? P3, 310-320 connecting hallway.”

“Aw, come on, I was just -”

“Be right there, Commander.”

“Thank you, Commander.”

“Did I get a promotion?” Ocelot inquires later, after Huey’s safely slumped on the floor.

“Slip of the tongue. What, you worried about someone overhearing? No one would question it.”

“My rank isn’t official.”

“Please. Everyone knows half this base belongs to you. Or do I need to throw half the combat staff in the brig?”

Ocelot ignores that to nod at the sealed door down the hall. “Is that…”

“Yeah.”

“You’re taking care of it?”

“It's under control.”

“Good," Ocelot says, and hoists Huey up in his arms.

No one else intrudes. Kaz checks on Quiet daily. He hopes to have it finished before the double returns to base, at least, and sends a few more jobs to his iDroid. The process goes quickly enough, though, the white areas on her MRI scans growing smaller by the day. He's kind of excited to see what exactly will wake up. If it'll still pretend to have tits, as if it was some sort of shape-memory alloy. Maybe it'll just be mist, in which case, he might have trouble getting it inside the suit. 

The suit is still in development, though, and Kaz checks on her daily while he waits for an update. Day one, 20% expansion. Day two, 70%. Day three - 

Day three is too late.

Kaz opens the door to an explosion. Thick sludge dripping from the ceiling, clinging to the walls, puddling on the floor. The thing struggling to coalesce in the tray rises in a shimmering wave before crashing, spilling over the sides and gushing out past Kaz's feet. 

Shimmering?

Kaz realizes it a moment too late. New mutations can happen in hours, Code Talker said. And the one that listens has had days - no, _months_ of living silent in Quiet's throat. Enough time to pick up a few tricks from the one that covers.

The new leg is awkward to run on but Kaz manages a shuffling sprint back to the deck where Agama’s waiting in the Ape. Agama, his loyal chauffeur, one of his most solid guys in Base Dev. Doesn’t talk too much but he’s dependable, doesn't ask unnecessary questions, and the soldiers like him more than Kaz. Kaz missed him when he was quarantined.

“Commander? Where to?”

The infected Diamond Dog's mating pairs were all turned to female while Quiet's lone male festered. It's quite happy to be out now. Kaz can smell the biochemicals, the ones that make his own eyes start to feel a little randy.

It's already latched onto Agama.

“Code Talker’s quarters.”

The old man’s got a room on the ground floor of the platform, near his work, but unlike Kaz he's got a fully accessible bathroom. He’s sitting by the window, musing to his parasites, and doesn’t even turn around when Kaz overrides the lock on his door.

“We’ve got an emergency,” Kaz starts. “That freak went mutant, and -”

“The girl is gone.”

“Yeah, the girl. She’s -”

“My children can see it. I suppose it was only a matter of time; the parasites share a common ancestor after all,” Code Talker continues. “A parasite, feeding on another parasite.” He pulls his pipe up to his lips.

“Is that that herb they don’t like?” Kaz eyes the pipe. “Give me some of that.”

It’s thick, heavy, and leaves him lightheaded and choking. There’s no other chairs in here, and Kaz settles for slumping against the wall. “What the hell…”

“ _Nicotiana rustica_ is ten times more potent than what you find in your typical cigarette.”

“What do we do?”

Code Talker finally looks at him, parasites gleaming, and says what Kaz has been expecting and dreading.

Even triggering a radiation leak does nothing to stop it. Whether the male learned how to clone itself, how to cover, Kaz doesn't know, he's too busy choking on tobacco smoke while coordinating with Ocelot on his iDroid and trying to ignore Code Talker's questions while the thing that was Quiet plays homewrecker on every single safely lesbian couple on base. It might be only interested in mating with the other vocal chord parasites, but Kaz has no intention of risking it.

When the last one is in quarantine he finally steps out onto a hushed, half-deserted base, and realizes he’ll have to tell the medic.

Of course the medic insists on handling it himself. Kaz knew he would. There's only one cure for this.

Ocelot slides his hands over his hips as the medic's chopper departs.

“I didn’t -” Kaz starts, and stops.

It _is_ his fault.

He forces himself to sit through it all. He watches when Jade Tree Frog’s brain matter splatters on the wall behind her. Agama. Platypus. Bullfrog, one of the sailors from Thailand, who picked up Kikongo when he worked alongside former fishermen of the Zaire River. Jaguar, who was good with the goats. Steady Giraffe, tall like her namesake and a skilled sniper. Hungry Kangaroo and Jumping Koala and Raging Boar.

The bodies take all night to burn.

Kaz tells the medic nothing could be done. Ocelot tells him they caught Huey snooping around the parasite labs. It's as if he doesn't even hear them, as if he can still hear _them_ sobbing. There's still blood on his hands, splattered on his face, staining the knees of his fatigues.

Ocelot jerks his head and Kaz follows him away. Beyond the firelight, through a door, inside a supply closet where Kaz can finally, finally break down.

The tears aren't coming. Maybe Kaz already cried all he could.

Ocelot won’t fuck him like he wants: hard, and brutal, like that pain would be enough. Ocelot kisses him sweet and jerks him off slow and licks the salt off his cheeks. Ocelot’s seen worse, probably done worse, and never by accident.

It's okay. For all they know Quiet would have mutated regardless. As long as Ocelot's secrets are safe, it's fine. Kaz presses his head into the crook of his neck and just breathes.

"Could you make me forget this?" he finally asks.

"I could, sure. The question is, would I?"

"I wouldn't want you to." 

Ocelot runs gloved fingers through his hair, presses a kiss. “Think of this as a learning experience."

“Yeah, yeah," Kaz sniffs. "Taking losses for the endgame, right?"

"Isn’t that your line?”

“Tell me how it goes again.”

“I want to hear how you think it goes.”

“Me?” Kaz laughs until he coughs. “Fine. Christ. Okay. I - we’re two old fucks. You’ve aged like shit, by the way, but I still got it going on. And - and everything is over, and you won the day and saved the world or whatever and we’re on a great big fucking yacht drinking twelve hundred dollar bottles of champagne. Somewhere in the South Pacific. And we’re - we're both wearing those stupid leopard print suits.” And Kaz's shoes are made of snakeskin. 

“Ocelot print."

" _Ocelot_ print, yeah."

"And you in the white tiger stripes.”

“You remember those.”

“Course I do.” Ocelot’s smiling too, now. Kaz can feel it against his lips. “I like that. We’ll have it.”

“All right,” Kaz says. “Let’s go back out there.”

The flames are burning down. The sky is turning pink.

The medic wants to turn the ashes into diamonds. The process will be expensive and time consuming, as if sourcing and training new staff won’t be difficult enough in the days to come, but Kaz can do it.

He can send Snake out to fetch Quiet where the 40th army fails. He can have a HAZMAT team on standby, just in case. He can order an airstrike on an island full of kids, too, when that particular shit hits the fan and the final crop of the Indo-European strain is discovered.

And he can quietly begin to plan his escape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEXT CHAPTER: Los Angeles! Hamburgers! Nadine! aka the part I, at least, have been waiting for desperately. The entire reason this exists. The most important characters in Metal Gear.


	7. 1986 / THE END

**LOS ANGELES, 1986**

“My mother came to this country from El Salvador,” Madelín says, lighting a cigarette in the corner booth. She shouldn’t be smoking in the restaurant area, but two hours after lunch rush the McDonnell’s is empty but for discarded napkins and fry baskets. “She tried to make pupusas. She got herself a little cart, and she tried to sell pupusas on the corner. Can you believe that?”

“Pupusas?” Kaz squints at the teenager popping gum at the cash stand rather than wiping greasy tables. One of the reasons why he chose to focus on the West Hollywood franchise in particular was because Madelín Reyes-Walker kept edging over the payroll budget.

“Pupusas! Nobody, _nobody_ in America knew what they were. They called her a Mexican. They all wanted Tex-Mex. Taco Bell." She wags a finger, bracelets jingling. “I told her every day, give up your pupusas. Make hamburgers. Americans love hamburgers. And she never listened!”

“Couldn’t adjust to the market, huh?”

“Don’t even tell me about the market. Now? More and more Salvadorans are coming to America. And now the Americans want pupusas," she sighs. "I don’t care. I’m an American now. And I like hamburgers. "

“Just what _is_ a pupusa?"

“Hmm. Come over to my house sometime. I’ll show you.” The lines around her heavily turquoise-shadowed eyes say she's old enough to be Kaz’s mother, and surely knows a few of her tricks.

“Hey, now, business before pleasure," he chuckles, "but remind me to take you up on that. Is it something from El Salvador?”

“Mm-hmm. I don’t make them as good as my mother, though. I haven’t been back since I was a little girl, and with the war now - like I said. I’m an American.” She shrugs, flicking ash in the empty Coke bottle she’s using as a makeshift ashtray. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

"Where are you from?" 

Like a hundred million or so other people in Los Angeles, Benedict McDonnell is just another immigrant in a urban melting pot trying to strike it rich. That market diversity is exactly why he's here. Telling her the truth about his heritage will only give him an edge here, and it sure seems to catch her off guard.

“Japanese? But you speak Spanish like a _costariccense?"_

Before she can continue that line of questioning the door chimes. Madelín hastily drops her cigarette, swearing beneath her breath.

“Geez, Mom, you can’t smoke in the restaurant! People are trying to _eat_ here.”

“ _Nadine_ ,” Madelín hisses. “Benedict, this is my daughter. Nadine, this is Benedict McDonnell Miller.” She drawls out the names slowly, grinning. “He’s a _CEO_.”

“Regional manager," Kaz corrects, "and even that's not saying much yet. Your entrepreneurial mother here owns one of only three franchises. But give it five years, and McDonnell’s will be a household name coast to coast. Step one starts right here.” He raps his flesh knuckles on the audit report.

“Uh-huh.” Nadine frowns at Kaz’s plain business suit. “Well then, if you're the boss, can you please tell her not to smoke in the dining area?”

“It’s a little impolite to the customers,” Kaz says, and Madelín flutters her eyelashes and sighs.

Unlike her flirtatious mother, Nadine plays it cool. She only stares at his hand for a second too long before catching herself, and then she stares even harder.

“I’m a nurse at the VA center,” she explains finally. “We see a lot of guys with prosthetics, I just never seen one like that.”

“Señor Miller is a very, _very_ rich man.”

“We’ve been trying to strike a deal with some manufacturers, but...”

“The industry here is ruthless?” Once McDonnell’s is big enough, Kaz plans on including a comprehensive health insurance plan to even the part time employees, and it won’t even cost them that much to get it. “That’s the problem with American-style capitalism, you know. Take it from me: sick people won’t make you any money. You wanna maximize productivity, you want your men healthy. Strong. _Robust_. Give them their goddamn meds.”

“I mean…” Nadine starts.

“Hey, it’s true.” Kaz used to run his own damn miniature militarized nation. Excuse him if he knows a thing or two. “You know, I happen to know a medical supplies manufacturer or two. I can hook you up. We’re talking advanced bionics here. Neurological implants, biosensors, full tactile sensation, the works.” His fingers gleam, snapping. “I might be able to work out a deal or two for America’s best and bravest.”

Nadine looks stunned. Madelín looks like she’d jump across the table to tear Kaz’s suit off right this second.

“I’m on my lunch break,” Nadine says finally. “But I’ll, uh. If you give me your information, I’d be happy to set up a meeting with our board of directors.”

Two business deals at once - on a lunch break, even. Not bad at all.

Nadine twists her mouth in a little smile at his business card. She’s actually somewhere around Kaz’s age. Late thirties, not half as badly aged. Not too old to pull off the cute asymmetrical hairstyle, though. Looks like something she saw on MTV. Whatever she's seeing in a disabled middle-aged man in a bland linen suit, who knows.

Then again, he's an up-and-coming CEO. Right now’s the prime time for a woman to make her move. Get hitched before the first million, before he gets too far into the cocaine and hookers to ever want to settle down. Hire maids to handle the housework, pump out a kid or two, and get half in the eventual divorce.

These people have no clue how much money he has.

Still, he’s almost forgotten was it was like to be noticed by women. Two months ago, shortly after he first touched down in LAX, some horse-faced bitch in the Bullock’s off Wilshire told her kids not to stare when Kaz was just dithering over what kind of garbage liners to buy. But he didn’t spend months in physical therapy for nothing. Just being able to use his new arm meant he had to get back in proper shape, and all that time spent limping around taught him to develop actual, functional strength. He might look better than he did in his twenties, and this time around he's earned his vanity.

It’s not like he’s going to screw around with Madelín or her daughter anyways. He’s doesn’t have to seal business deals with oral sex anymore; he’s a genuine salt-of-the-earth entrepreneur now. If he wants to get his dick wet he can cruise down Crenshaw Boulevard and find any consummate professional for a quick and dirty blowjob in the backseat of his Volvo.

Last time he tried to take a girl to one of the red-lights dotting the strip he was shaking so badly she tried to offer him smack. 

Three hours after the meeting Kaz is still driving, cruising the clustered highways as the city turns pink. There’s an ordered chaos to the traffic here, the kind of hot smoggy mess Kaz thrives in. From the I5 he can hop on the 2 East and be in the mountains in less than an hour. Or he could turn west, drive through the long curves of Beverly Hills, and hit the beach. Or he could hit the 10, twist through Tehachapi Pass, and come out clean under the stars of the Mojave, where odd striped moonlit mountains rise from dry salt lakes, where a lesser man might go to lose himself.

That's not what he came to California to do. When the sun finally falls behind the curve of the horizon, he turns home.

"Home" is a pretty little ranch-style in Los Feliz, with clusters of saw palmettos in the front and every point of entry visible to the HUEC members stationed in nearby apartments. That was Ocelot’s idea. No matter how iron-clad Benedict’s file is, there’s the odd rival PFs Diamond Dogs hasn’t already merged with who might think Kazuhira Miller is still a target worth anything.

Speaking of that, he’s supposed to finalize the deal with Merryweather Private Security by now. He pours a good two inches of fine bourbon in a glass and drinks it standing up in the kitchen, tapping at his iDroid. Of course he didn’t completely retire from Diamond Dogs. This is just a vacation. A well-deserved break.

Even Ocelot’s cologne and gun oil couldn’t cover up the stink of dead man. No, the fucker _encouraged_ he keep up a relationship with the phantom. Said he _made_ him for Kaz.

That was handled quick enough. Ocelot did most of the heavy lifting.

Flicking through his iDroid, Kaz has to admit Diamond Dogs is doing just fine without him. He made sure things wouldn't go FUBAR once he cut the apron strings - in fact, restaffing half the base was a prime opportunity to decentralize command. There was no reason for Kaz to work as hard as he did, darting from platform to platform with his eyes dripping all over his desk, rubbing cocaine on his gums just to keep himself awake. The Rogue Coyote merger opened plenty of doors, D.H. Arms has factories in three different third-world countries by now, and the diamond mine consistently exceeds projections.

Here in Los Angeles, Kaz can walk down Rodeo Drive and see his very own diamonds in a jewelry-shop window. The hookers and the homeless and the homos shoot the same smack he's been importing from Southeast Asia for years, and he's pretty sure the Bloods and the Crips alike get their gats handed down from D.H. Arms. Kind of funny standing in the consumer's shoes for once.

Kaz sends a quick message to R&D and adds some ice to his bourbon. He takes the sealed metal cylinder out of the freezer, too, and scrolls through the music library on his iDroid until he finds its favorite Prince album.

Halfway through The Beautiful Ones the iDroid rings.

Ocelot didn’t help him move in. Kaz didn’t want him to, didn’t need him to. He didn’t need Ocelot to fly over, costs be damned, and screw him silly in every room of this stupid house, but he does need Ocelot to read him the rota for next week. Go over supply orders and fine-tune proposals. Rant to Ocelot about his latest dealings with tomato farmers and Sysco.

Sometimes Ocelot’s stupid cowboy voice is the only thing that can get him to sleep, is all. They shared a damn bedroom before Kaz finally left; it's only natural.

“What’s that you’re listening to?” It's quiet, wherever Ocelot is.

“You've heard this a hundred times. Let me tell you, thirty years from now people will still be calling this album a classic.”

“Don’t doubt it.” Ocelot hmms. “Now, about that memo you sent you to R&D… are you trying to set up a charity?”

“It’s not a charity per se,” Kaz says. “But we’ve got one of the top bionics scientists in the world at our disposal. Besides, isn’t Big Boss some big damn hero these days anyways?” It was Kaz who set up that whole deal with the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament, after all. He knows all about whatever the phantom’s doing for the Patriots these days.

He knows about that abandoned nuclear test site in the Kalahari, too.

“True,” Ocelot agrees. “I’ll tell the phantom to start on that ASAP.”

“What?”

“What?”

“You’re not at Diamond Dogs anymore? Who the hell is - “

“Of course I’m at Diamond Dogs.”

That might not be a lie. The phantom didn’t want to see him for a good few months, but Ocelot came slithering back somehow. Maybe Ocelot’s the one screwing him now.

“How’s Miller’s Maxi Buns coming along? Have you defeated In-N-Out yet?”

“It’s McDonnell’s now,” Kaz mutters, and downs the rest of his drink. “And no. If anything, I’ll propose a merger and teach them the power of a bacon burger. Why don’t you come over and see it for yourself? Help me, uh, hypnotize a bunch of teenagers into cleaning good.”

“Sounds like fun. I’ll pencil it into my calendar.”

“When?”

“Soon."

He _didn’t_ leave. And yet here he fucking is, halfway to passing out in his very own goddamn kitchen in his very own goddamn civilian neighborhood. Walking to the corner liquor store to buy cigarettes he hates and no booze, he doesn’t need anymore, dodging people who don’t salute while the traffic rolls along like he isn’t even there.

Back in 1976 he already went through this whole personal crisis. Los Angeles might not bend to his will, but that’s why he established McDonnell’s. To give him something to do. Something to have control of, so that he _doesn’t_ drive his car off a cliff into the Pacific.

Pupusas turn out to be tasty little stuffed and fried corn cakes, cooked up on the burger griddle and eaten with some sort of spicy cabbage and sour cream. They inspire a burger topped with roasted poblanos and melting white cheese. That might be an idea - giving each franchise a little room to have a regional special. A barbecue burger for the South, some sort of crab patty for the Northeast. It's an idea.

Managing the restaurant is more fun than he thought it would be.

Madelín’s widowed, but has six grown kids including Nadine, a whole gaggle of nieces and nephews, and plenty of teenage grandchildren who flit in and out the shop. No wonder she keeps going over payroll budget, but Kaz finds he doesn't have the heart to cut down on it. She's happy. They're all happy.

Spring turns to summer, and it’s about as hot and smoggy in SoCal as it was on a giant base-cum-factory in the tropics. Sometimes Kaz gets invited to block parties that follow the typical pattern of a Diamond Dogs birthday party, and sometimes he hears a DJ chopping up some old funk song that drives him to light a cigarette. Sometimes he orders his completely unnecessary bodyguards to come over for drinks and poker even if he barely recalls their names. Sometimes he hits up some of the professionals on Crenshaw and makes it all the way to four thirty AM in a smoke-choked motel room, afraid to fall asleep in case the girl tries to make off with his Rolex.

Summer turns to winter. Los Angeles drops maybe ten degrees Fahrenheit. Nothing else changes, but Kaz only gets wasted and pulls the metal cylinder out of the freezer to put on its favorite tapes maybe, once a month.

Of course it’s one of those nights when Nadine comes over - alone. Some bullshit pretext about how Kaz forgot to go over the latest resumes or didn’t check a box on his supply order. It doesn’t matter. She’s there. Alone. And Kaz is only a man.

“I love this song,” she gushes, teetering on the front step. “Oh my gosh. I think I saw Purple Rain three times in theaters.”

Kaz blinks, swaying on his feet a little.

She’s got a great rack, even if he can’t see it under her colorblocked windbreaker, and her goofy Salt-n-Pepa haircut is kind of sweaty and clinging to her face. Cute round face, cheeks turning pink. Kind of bopping to the music a little.

She’s just so goddamn _pretty._

What’s Ocelot gonna do? Cut off his other leg?

“I never saw the movie,” he says, finally. “How was it?”

 

 

It's April by the time Kaz says: “Long story short, she’s pregnant.”

“I see.”

“Look, Ocelot, she wants to keep it. And it’s not even - hell, she’s almost forty, this is pretty much her last chance. She’s got a big family, a supportive mother, she’s not trying to badger me into anything. She just wants a kid.”

“What’s the problem then? You can’t afford the child support?”

“Of course I can! It’s just - she wants it. And I - I never -” Kaz takes a minute to breathe and definitely not slam his head into the kitchen table. The phone cord’s all twisted up in his fingers. “I told myself a long time ago, if I was ever gonna be a father, I’d be _there._ What did you expect me to do? I’m all alone here, Ocelot. I can’t -”

“I know who you are, Miller. I’m surprised you haven’t accidentally impregnated half the female population of Los Angeles.” Ocelot says.

“Oh. Well, if you’re gonna be like that, I used condoms with the hookers.”

“Did you use those with Nadine?”

“Hey, hookers are professionals. I trust them more than some middle-aged former Valley girl who’s never had a serious relationship in her life.” Well. Until now. “Just don’t kill her?”

“She’s carrying your child. Why would I ever do that?”

“I don’t know?” His laugh is short and forced.

_“Kaz."_

“I miss you, okay? I miss Diamond Dogs. I miss all of it. Shit, I’m the one who suggested we get married.”

“Good. Wouldn’t want the child to grow up a bastard. When’s the wedding?”

“Sometime after the baby is born, I don’t know, she wants to fit in her grandmother’s dress and drink champagne.”

“Understandable.”

“This doesn’t change anything, Ocelot. It's just... a minor setback.”

Ocelot chuckles, and at that low rumble Kaz finally relaxes. “I wouldn't call eighteen years _minor_.”

"I just don't want you to..."

His voice softens a bit when he says: "Of course not, Kaz."

Kaz puts his iDroid back in his pocket and just breathes. He leaves the Longs Drugs bathroom stall, gets the prenatals and the pads and the Milk Duds before driving to Nadine’s apartment to toss her on the bed and kiss her belly.

They should really move in together for this, so they do. Nadine brings in bright colors and wooden chairs and chintzy throw rugs. There was some furniture catalog Base Dev handed Kaz before he moved in he never bothered to read; she could paint the walls black and replace the hardwood with checkerboard linoleum for all Kaz gives a damn. As long as she doesn't try to change the lights.

The pregnancy goes easy; the hard parts are hidden behind the clucking of Madelín and a dozen aunts. Catherine Amagaeru Reyes-Walker-Miller is born on November 19th, 1987. Kaz holds her screaming wet red body in his hands and sobs while Nadine pants.

All she does is shit, puke, and screech. She's perfect. No idea what a timetable is, zero impulse control, could probably die in her sleep on accident and she's still perfect. Three in the morning is as good a time as any for breakfast - unless it's two in the morning, or five, or perhaps instead of breakfast it's time to puke up dinner, or, god forbid, she decrees it screaming hour. Screaming hour is the worst. It's perfect.

Kaz is so tired he doesn't even question it when four weeks later Ocelot unlocks his front door and finds him on the sofa. Nadine is taking a nap she sorely needs, Cathy is sucking happily on her bottle, and all Kaz does is hold a finger to his lips. Of course Ocelot has a key. There's probably invisible bugs all through the house, and the thing that lives in the cylinder was controlling them the whole time.

It's fine if Ocelot doesn't take off his boots; the shag rug in the living room has already been puked on twice. Kaz nods to the empty half of the loveseat. “Hold her for a minute, will you?” he whispers. “Both my arms are killing me. I think she dripped drool all in my circuits or something.”

Ocelot accepts his squirmy burden with due and proper reverence. Kaz fusses, fixes his arms. Makes sure he's got her head supported. Flips the ends of his scarf back, he wouldn't want her to chew on it. The whole time, Ocelot's just staring at her. 

The two of them are doing great. Kaz sits back, regarding them for a moment, before stretching and turning on the TV. Idly flipping through the channels, trying to find something decent but child-suitable. Thundercats, maybe. Ocelot ought to get a real kick out of that.

“I don’t know if she even gets anything out of this,” Kaz says, nodding to the TV. “Most of these baby shows are all shit. But I’ve been talking to her in Japanese, a little. Figure it’ll help her out developmentally or something. You should talk to her in Russian or French or -”

Ocelot’s gone completely still. Not even Thundercats can distract him.

Shit. There's nothing in the house - all right, there's a bit of coke in an underwear drawer, but between the pregnancy and the baby Kaz hasn't exactly been using anything and even then it's been so long since he's seen Ocelot in the flesh, he doesn't know -

Kaz kisses him on the ear before whispering the line.

There he is.

And now he's turning his head. Pressing his lips against Kaz's, briefly, before pushing his tongue inside. Nothing too heated, not right over Cathy's head, but Ocelot digs one canine in his lower lip too hard. 

Ocelot pulls back at the taste of blood and says, softly: “I think she’s wet herself."

“Christ." Kaz licks his lip. Yeah, he can smell it. "All right, come on.”

Teaching Ocelot to change a diaper isn’t that different from Ocelot putting a knife in his hands, when you get right down to it. The wet wipes look as foreign in Ocelot’s gloves as the stun rods felt in Kaz’s, the first time -

_He’s folding his fingers over the hilt of the knife. Using his hand to wield it._

_"I want," he says carefully, "to -"_

The first time Kaz asked him about his _art._

There's something there Ocelot never returned. Hardly matters when he’s trying to tell the man how not to wipe pee into an infant’s... vagina. For some reason Kaz can’t say words like _piss_ in reference to his daughter.

Ocelot changes her diaper with the same perfunctory efficiency he does everything else. Minus the flourishes - at least, until he finishes the job by grabbing both of Cathy’s hands and lifting her straight off the changing table.

“Hold on, what the hell are you -”

“She's a true little monkey, all right.” Ocelot says admiringly over her cries. “Look at that grip. Powerful survival instinct, even at - what, four weeks?”

“You’re gonna wake up Nadine!”

“She should be sleeping very, very deeply.”

“Christ, did you sedate her or something? Give me her.” He grabs Cathy a little too fast, wrapping her up in the arms and starting up the little jiggle-bounce pattern he’s developed.

“When DD was a pup, I used to let him cry sometimes,” Ocelot says, watching him. “It’s no good to spoil them. She’ll shed plenty more tears than that.”

"DD? Seriously?"

“A baby’s a baby.”

“Two completely different species, raised for completely different goals - “

“Oh?” Ocelot sounds way too curious. “What’s your goal with Cathy?”

"Well, she'll have to take over Mcdonnell's someday. What, you got any other ideas?"

Before Ocelot can reply a voice slurs, "Ben?”

Nadine's slumped against the nursery door. “Who the hell,” she mumbles, looking Ocelot up and down. Stopping on the boots.

“Katz,” Ocelot says, offering a hand. “Wayne Katz. I served with your husband here, back in the day. Doubt he told you much about that.”

“He thinks I can’t tell,” she snorts. “I work at the VA and he thinks I can’t tell. I don’t ask!” She fixes him with a startlingly sober look. “I’m gonna ask _you._ ”

“Nadine, honey, I think you should go back to bed.”

“M’fine. Baby’s crying.”

“We’re handling it,” Ocelot says, soothing, and now he’s touching Nadine on her arm. Putting a hand on the small of her back to lead her to bed.

“What the hell did you give her?” Kaz asks, once she’s safely put away.

Ocelot shrugs. “Much less than what I used to give you.”

Kaz sits down in the rocking chair Nadine installed in the makeshift nursery. They were supposed to paint it all pink and cute, too, but the paint cans are still sitting in the closet. Ocelot takes the floor, lookin up expectantly.

“Tell me about this Wayne Katz fellow. And please, tell me that’s spelled with a K.”

Wayne Katz was, apparently, Kaz’s brother-in-arms back in “the war.” After Vietnam, they fell out of contact, but Wayne was delighted to finally hear from his old foxhole buddy. Even more surprised to learn that he had a child. His current work keeps him flying around quite a bit - in fact, he works for the very same medical supplies manufacturer that graciously supplies advanced bionics to veterans. And he’s staying the night.

Once Cathy’s fast asleep Kaz gets at least the living room checked off on the list of rooms he once wanted Ocelot to fuck him in.

They have to keep quiet, and Kaz has to keep one ear open, but it’s easy to forget when Ocelot's hands are everywhere like that. The bite in his lip isn't even that bad, and he has to swat Ocelot back a little bit before he turns Kaz's mouth into a bleeding mess. That'd be one hell of a thing to explain to Nadine, and when they're sticky on the couch afterwards Kaz realizes he still has zero idea how to explain Ocelot. A business partner. An old friend. Does it really matter? She thought he was gay at first anyways, what with the diamond in his ear. 

“War binds men together closer than brothers,” Ocelot tells her warmly over breakfast, Cathy in his arms with her bottle like he’s just been a part of this the whole time. Wayne Katz has an even thicker accent than Sheriff Wildcat.

“That’s so sweet,” she sighs, stirring heavy cream and sugar in her chamomile tea. No coffee for her yet. “I can’t believe Ben never told me about you.”

“I'm sure he had his reasons."

Ocelot very pointedly does not glance at the dismembered elephant in the room. Two giant questions Nadine has never bothered to ask, and she still won't ask, even when Ocelot's clearly undressing her betrothed with his eyes at breakfast table. Nadine scorches the eggs because she's too busy darting eyes between the two of them. Whatever horrible telenovela scene she's imagining, Kaz has no intention of playing it out.

But of course Ocelot is invited to the wedding. He wouldn't miss it for the world.

The night before, Nadine drives out across the desert with two of her best girl friends and a gaggle of aunts for some bachelorette party. Nothing too crazy, she promises, she isn’t in her twenties anymore, but she’s got a little glow in her cheeks. She'll take pictures of the Chippendales.

Kaz spends the day fishing on the L.A. River with some of Nadine's brothers and uncles. They drink cheap watery beer and catch nothing in favor of watching the big CEO learn how to bait a hook. Kaz has exactly one beer, stretched out to cover a few hours. If he wasn't making an honest woman out of Nadine, these men would be -

Well, it doesn't matter how many there are. They'd all be dead.

The real bachelor party comes after, and consists of Ocelot in the passenger seat with a fully-stocked diaper bag and Cathy in his arms. The Santa Monica pier is busy and brightly lit at night, but they ignore the crowds to walk down the moonlit beach. Kaz takes off his shoes; Ocelot keeps his boots on. At six months Cathy’s crawling and baby-talking, and they spread out a blanket to watch her rumple it up and get sand everywhere anyways.

“We never could see the stars on Mother Base, huh?” Kaz says, lying back. His daughter’s tiny fingers prod at his face. The shades are safely tucked away, but he doesn’t quite like the thought of her sticking her hands into his parasites. “Too many bright lights there.”

“Can’t see much of them here, either.”

Cathy mumbles something completely unintelligible, in her own private language.

Even on the darkened beach the lights of the city reflects deep red against the dome of night. The gentle roll of the tide is muted beneath the sounds of the pier, the automobiles. Los Feliz is a decent area, less gunshots and sirens, but it's still never quite quiet here.

“It’s the damn city. We should’ve gone to the mountains if we wanted to see the stars." That'd be nice, sometime in the future. Tonight he just wanted to sit on a beach with Ocelot. “Moon's pretty, at least. Feel like I never really do that enough.”

“Do what?”

“Just sit here. Looking at the moon.”

“Even in your retirement, you’ve been busy.”

“I’ve only got five franchises. Things have been a little hectic with the baby and all. C’mere, froggy,” Kaz says, and pulls Cathy back from the edge of the blanket. He looks up at Ocelot, a dark profile against the night sky. “How’s things at Diamond Dogs, anyways?”

“Construction on the Pacific FOBs is finally complete. Merryweather’s a fine addition to the flock - they’re controlled by Cipher, too, you know. R&D’s slowed a bit, what with Code Talker's passing and the loss of our favorite parasite, but on the other hand D.H. Arms is leading the world in stealth camouflage. Kuwait’s happy to supply us oil, but the Iran-Iraq tension is putting quite a bit of pressure on them. I’m giving it another two, three years before they get pulled into war. And the phantom’s gotten into fishing.”

“Fishing, huh?"

"Hunting, too. You'd be surprised. It seems they were having some... _issues_ with supply lines in the Kalahari."

Kaz snorts. "Let me guess. Snake thinks he can feed a growing nation nothing but raw scorpion and datura.”

Ocelot shrugs. “I told you he's building his own grave.” His sharp nose doesn’t even drop, but this is something Kaz is well-attuned to.

“You’ve been visiting him, too.”

“Yes.”

“Wasn’t he -” Kaz starts, and swallows. “Are you really just gonna let Cipher take him out? In the end? I know that’s years away, but I’d wanna make it more personal.” He sits up, pulling Cathy on his lap. She’s got the tiniest little fingers, it’s incredible. “Sometimes I think I’d like to take the phantom out myself. Whenever his time comes. Put on the Isley Brothers and give him a lethal injection. Easy as that.”

What he’d like to do to Snake is a different story. Not worth mentioning.

“John was the first friend I ever had,” Ocelot admits. “But that doesn’t change anything.”

Ocelot shifts on the blanket, moving behind him. His arms come around Kaz’s shoulders, looping around his neck, and Kaz twists instinctively to kiss him. Cathy squirms, warm in his arms, and for some stupid godforsaken reason Kaz feels like -

“This doesn’t change anything either."

None of it: the hamburgers, the wife, the vows Kaz will read off the back of an index card tomorrow because he and Nadine are busy people and don't have the time for poetry. Right now the dead man is sending a nuclear arsenal to Snake and it doesn't change anything.

“I know."

The wedding is fine. It’s a simple courthouse ritual; what matters is the afterparty. One of Nadine’s uncles somehow finagled his way into the movie business, he’s got a big house in the hills and he's tickled pink someone else in the family got their shit together and nabbed a CEO. Kaz likes him a lot. Cathy pukes once, screams over the DJ twice, and finally goes to some bedroom with Aunt Selena or whoever. Nadine’s drinking champagne under the string lights in the yard that reflect off the flat water of the pool, a Diamond Dogs diamond on her finger, and Kaz is right there beside her.

Ocelot turns up to the party an hour late in a cream-colored duster, and Kaz goes to check on Cathy before he does something stupid like drunkenly kiss him in front of all of Nadine’s uncles.

Cathy’s fine. Shit herself again, and Kaz has had too much champagne to change her diaper. Selena laughs him off, telling him it’s fine, it’s his big night, there’s nothing to worry about. There still isn’t anything to worry about when he goes back to the kitchen for another beer and happens to overhear Ocelot and Nadine having a semi-private conversation in the freaking pantry closet, of all the places. They don’t seem to know the door is open. Or at least Nadine doesn’t.

“-oozing blood, he still picked me up out of that hole. Crawled through the mud, with half his body missing, while he dragged me to the chopper. That was the moment I -” Ocelot starts, and stares into space for only a moment before catching himself. Smiling, with only a trace of sadness there. “You’re a lucky woman, Nadine.”

“No,” Nadine chokes, champagne sloshing. “No, no, no. Just say it. That was the moment you fell in _love_ with him.”

Ocelot lowers his head. Nadine falls into him, tears staining his duster. It’s too warm for him to be wearing that thing anyways. But Kaz knows what’s going to happen the moment they separate for a moment of intense eye contact, then turn to him and _smile._

The truth is, it’s the best threesome he’s ever had with Ocelot.

By morning he's gone. Nothing but a pot of bitter coffee on the burner and a note Kaz slips in his bathrobe while Selena's heating up Cathy's bottle. She asks if his father will be staying for breakfast, and Kaz actually spews coffee laughing. Ragging on Ocelot isn't half as fun when he isn't around, but still.

A few days before Cathy's first birthday, she decides crawling is for worms. She's fully upright and frankly imposing, a tiny pink Godzilla, in the photo Kaz sends. It's all in the angle.

Ocelot's reply is exactly what he expected: she's pretty good.

 

**THE END.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EXIT / CONTINUE?
> 
>  
> 
> Fun fact: Cathy's middle name means "tree frog" in Japanese.


	8. THE GREATEST LUXURY

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: I think if you've made it this far... are we good? Some big circles are closing here. Also, this might go without saying but Ocelot is _obviously gay_ , just very good at playing roles. 
> 
> Links go to another supply drop about baby Kazu, and a reference to a fic in the "the one where kaz dies in outer heaven -verse", because all of my shit is connected

**PART 2**

 

**APRIL, 1992**

A few parasites slide across Kaz’s aviators to peek over the edge of the L.A Times. The woman’s sitting on a park bench thirty yards to the left, just in his peripheral, likewise barely reading the tabloid in her hands. The only other red-head is somewhere on the jungle gym with Cathy. A little too perfectly matched a family, though Kaz supposes he isn’t one to talk about recessive genes.

He hasn’t seen her around the neighborhood before. Or else he _has_ , and she’s been slotted nicely into his peripherals the entire time.

If it’s one of Ocelot's so-called siblings she shouldn’t be so obvious, but it’s hard to ignore how the woman's almost designed to be attractive. Poorly aged, maybe, but the same thing happened to Ocelot.

If it's one of the Patriots, well. Kaz is the absolute last person anyone would look at these days. Even if they want to acquire McDonnell’s, all they’d find behind that is the extensive Reyes-Walker family.

She could always be a Diamond Dog; one of the HUEC spies Kaz has repeatedly told Ocelot aren't necessary. Not like he can pull out his iDroid, currently in a box on the high shelf of the master closet, to check.

The woman's getting up now. Kaz sets down his soda and newspaper. Without it all he has is his loaded AM D-116 in the the shoulder holster beneath his windbreaker and a stuffed frog sticking out of his pocket. But no spy would just run up and start yelling at a bunch of innocent kids. At _Cathy?_

Just some uppity bitch, then. Kaz knows how to deal with that.

“What the hell’s going on here?” He drags Cathy behind him. “You got a problem with my kid?”

She pauses. That's right, all bets are off when it comes to race traitors. “You got a spic kid?”

“...You wanna try that again?”

That's a look Kaz seen too many times before. “Your little _sweetheart_ here threw sand in my son’s face.”

Cathy wriggles like a little jellyfish, but her wrist is in a steel grasp. “Did not!”

The son in question is still rubbing sand from his eyes. Judging by the mother he must've deserved it.

“Cathy, tell me the truth. Did you throw sand at that boy?”

She bites her lip.

"Cathy, that's an order."

“He broke my castle first,” she mumbles.

The boy denies all wrongdoing, the mom says some crap about how Cathy needs to say sorry and mow her lawn and go back across the border while she’s at it, but Cathy points to [a ruined pile of sand.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12860274)

Kaz hmms at the evidence. "Well, that sand castle looks pretty broken to me. If you didn’t break it, who did? Point him out to me.”

The boy glowers. "I don't know! Somebody else."

Poorly aged, more like downright ugly, and it's all been passed right down to her son. Kaz chooses to focus on the kid even when the mother launches into a tirade about what a dumb bitch she is.

"So you're telling me my daughter's a liar. Or do you expect me to believe Cathy broke her own sandcastle? Seems like a stretch to me.”

“I don't know! I didn’t break her stupid castle!”

“Oh, so you think castles are stupid?”

“That’s what he said!” Cathy sobs. “He said - he said it was for _babies._ ”

“Babies, huh. How old are you?” Kaz asks the boy.

“He’s seven,” the mother snips.

“Seven. Pretty big, then. No wonder you think castles are stupid, but see, my daughter's only five.”

“Daddy, I’m six.”

“Not yet, baby. So you see my little daughter making her sand castle, and you - almost a grown-up by now - you come up and call her castle stupid.”

“It _was_ stupid,” he says, puffing. “It was stupid and dumb and for babies.”

“But you didn’t knock it over.”

“So what if I did!” A sneer. “What are you gonna do about it?”

“Nothing. It’s not my job to raise you to be something more than a cheap playground bully.” Kaz snaps the last phrase directly at the mother. "What, you got something to say? Or do you wanna call my kid a nasty word again? Is that how you teach your son to talk? Is it?"

She lowers her head, but Kaz can smell the rage sizzling off her shoulders. He leans closer, close enough for her to smell the Jarritos on his breath.

"I got a couple choice words I could call you," he tells her. "But that wouldn't be nice, would it? That wouldn't be setting a good example for the kids, would it?"

He'll whisper it instead, and thrill in that slow look of disgust in her eyes.

Right, they were just leaving.

“That's right, you just walk away. We're gonna be here making castles all day! Big giant sandcastles for big giant babies!” Kaz thinks twice before flipping the bird. That's not setting a good example either.

“Daddy, I’m not a baby,” Cathy says quietly.

That's true. Cathy is absolutely not a baby, and she doesn’t want to make another sandcastle. Sighing, Kaz scoops her up and lets her pout on his shoulder for a while, leaving the playground to where the trees gather close by the parking lot. He sets her down and checks his Rolex; Nadine's supposed to be picking them up in twenty anyways.

“All right, Cathy. Listen up.”

Big miserable eyes stare up at him. A boop to the nose can't make her smile.

Kaz bites back the curses in his throat and tells her, “The next time a boy knocks over your sand castle, I want you to kick him right here." He points right between her legs.

Cathy scratches the butterfly embroidered on her jeans. “But Daddy, that’s privacy. You don’t touch it.”

“True. But why don’t we touch privacies?”

“Because it hurts.”

“You know what else hurts? Getting your sand castle knocked down. And sometimes, when someone hurts you, you need to hurt 'em back. Right in the privacies.”

“But it’s privacy!”

“So? Here, tell you what. I’ll let you try it out on me.”

Cathy chews her lip.

“Come on.” Kaz straightens a little, knees bent so she can still reach. “Kick me right here. Go ahead. Pretend I’m that son of a witch and kick me right in the privacy.”

It’s not the worst kick to the nuts he’s ever had, but he keels over and rolls in agony for the theater of it. Yet instead of laughing Cathy just pats his head like he's the puppy she’s been begging for.

“I’m sorry, Daddy.”

“No. _Never_ say sorry.”

Cathy looks confused. That's not what Mommy says. That’s not what Grandma says, or the Thundercats and the My Little Ponies and when she goes to school at the end of this summer on her first day of kindergarten it won’t be what her teacher says. Nobody told Kaz this either. No, they wrung their hands and told him to be polite, to be a good boy,  _shikata ga nai_ so sit down and shut up. Bullshit.

“Don't apologize for doing what you need to do, baby. You’re gonna meet a lot of people in this world, and a good lot of them will be just like that boy on the playground today. They will kick over your sandcastles and spit in your face, and it won't just be you they're doing it to. People like that, Cathy, they won't learn even if you do kick them in the privacies. No, they'll just cut off your foot so you can never kick them again.”

Cathy knows Daddy doesn’t have a leg. When they take baths together she likes to feel the scars. But the serious look on her face might just be because she’s picking her nose.

“Cathy?”

“Yeah?”

“What do you do when somebody cuts off your foot?”

She draws a booger out of her nose, frowning.

“Don’t you go eating -”

Too late. “You get a big new shiny foot instead.”

“And then what?"

"Kick them in the privacies."

"Good girl. Now get your finger out of your nose, you’re gonna break your nosebones and bleed out all over the place.”

Sometimes Kaz has these moments with her, when he realizes that Cathy’s only going to learn more and more and he has no idea if she’ll even remember these teachable moments. She's only five; Kaz remembers hardly anything from when he was five. The rice balls his mother made, the fresh-mopped wood floors of an empty classroom, a big American man laughing at him.

Then he got older and put those flashes into context. Those rice balls were so special because rice was rare after the war. That big American was probably fucking his mom, those pretty wood floors were mopped down by the other students he could never join, and it’s all just memories anyways. This fall Cathy will be starting school. She's going to need to stand up for herself.

Nadine's half an hour late, which gives them plenty of time to mutually contemplate the playground lessons they've learned today, the contents of Cathy's nostrils, and how it's this hot in April. By six in the evening Cathy is drowsing while Kaz smokes and contemplates some sort of dummied-down iDroid for Nadine, if not one of those new Motorolas.

Two bright beeps startle him out of reverie.

"I'm so, so sorry," Nadine says, leaning out the driver's window. There's a new red paisley scarf tied around her hair. "But you'll never guess who I ran into!" 

One of her cousins? She was supposedly out with them all day. But the passenger leans forward, out of the shadows, and Cathy screams and runs up to the car.

"You didn't answer your iDroid," Ocelot shrugs, and around his neck is a matching scarf. Naturally. He looks exhausted.

The way they tell it, it was an accidental meeting at the cafe she happened to brunching with her cousins at. Wayne had a long layover at LAX, only to find out his flight had been cancelled, which is why Ocelot didn't _tell him_ well in advance like he normally does the two or three times a year he drops in. A quick chat at brunch turned into coffee turned into a change of plans turned into all of them hitting up Rodeo Drive with the black card Kaz lent Nadine for the day. There’s a pair of new teal jellies for Cathy - she's already got a pair of tiny cowboy boots - and even a present for him, too. A thin strip of leather wrapped around his black card.

“It’s for your glasses! A safety strap so they don't fall off," Nadine explains, taking her eyes off the road again. Thank goodness Ocelot’s in the passenger seat. “I never know what I can get for you. I mean, you've got the watch, you never like the clothes, and it's not like I can buy you shoes. But this is nice, right? It’s real leather, from Italy. Louis Vuitton.”

“I thought Louis Vuitton just made purses.”

“Luggage, clothing...” Ocelot starts counting.

“Wait, was this custom made?”

Ocelot simpers. For all that he eats pussy Wayne's got a bit of a limp wrist when it comes to shopping. “I told you not to tell him the brand.”

“I never get anything for you, Ben. So what if I wanted something special?” Now she’s looking at Ocelot instead of the road. "I asked Wayne about it before I placed the order, and he said -"

“So you can blame me,” Ocelot drawls, and rolls down the window to let his scarf fly just so. “Don't worry about it, Nadine. I've been trying to get him to appreciate the finer things in life for years.”

"It's not frivolous," she says. "Is it? I knew I should've got him the fountain pen. It's so difficult getting him presents, you know? Especially when he doesn't even have a real birthday."

"That's the Japanese for you. They don't do Christmas presents, either."

"Do they even celebrate Christmas? See, he never tells me about this stuff!"

It _is_ almost Golden Week. Three days till the Showa Emperor's birthday - no, they changed it. It might be nice to go to the Japanese garden in Pasadena, or even deliver a lecture on when you might actually give someone a gift, but Kaz stays quiet. He's used to them talking about him like he isn’t here by now. Whatever friendship she's struck up with Wayne makes it easier for her to be here, to put up with all of Benedict Miller's shit. It was a bit terrifying the first time she took a phone behind a closed door, but the recordings reveal they just talk about him. And Cathy, and old movies Nadine absolutely needs to watch, and Motown records she can’t believe Wayne has heard before.

The strap is all right, but the last time Kaz lost his glasses was the final time.

Of course Cathy rats about how Daddy let her kick him in the dick. Nadine blows up, asking if he wants her to end up in juvie at twelve, Ocelot says some diffusive crap about how _you're never too young to start learning the basics of close-quarters combat_ and the argument ends somewhere around pepper spray for her sweet sixteen and a talk Nadine wishes her own father was still alive for by the time they reach the house.

Whenever dear old Uncle Wayne is in town, the plan is always the same. Make dinner, drop Cathy off at Madelin’s for the night, buy two bottles of red on the way home, and have loud three-way sex like they can’t have when Cathy’s around. Events are only slightly out of order tonight - seems Ocelot and Nadine worked themselves into a frenzy on Rodeo Drive.

It’s almost nostalgic watching Ocelot eat out his wife under the red lights of the bedroom, like they’re still in some red-light district snorting coke off sweaty bodies, back when Kaz was raw and hungry and couldn’t even relax into a pussy without grinding the eternal gears in his mind. Back when Ocelot would sink his teeth into his shoulders even as he pounded whatever girl they'd found, and he was never sure if he was imagining the blood until morning.

Nadine yanks him out of his thoughts by his bionic.

“Ben,” she sighs, “come _here,_ ” and Ocelot mumbles assent from inside her.

“What, can’t a guy just sit and watch sometimes?”

“Baby, please,” she says, dragging it out in a moan. “Let me... let suck you off." She always asks for these things like she can't believe they'll happen.

Far be it from Kaz to not oblige her. He has to straddle her to do it, sliding his dick between her breasts a little before feeding it between her lips nice and slow. When Ocelot slides a hand from her hips to his ass, he's not surprised to feel her slender fingers prodding as well.

Dinner is quieter without Cathy sitting on the counter handing him spoons and making a mess. There's nothing better than a actual five year old putting Ocelot to shame in the kitchen.

“You’re the only time he lets me in the kitchen,” Nadine stage-whispers. "I swear."

“That’s not true. I let you cook all the time.”

“You trust my mother more than me.”

“You,” Kaz says, wagging a spoon at her, “could have stood to listen to your mother once or twice. As it stands, the two of you would burn water without me around. Wayne, grab the salt. Nadine, fill that pot with water. You're gonna put in one tablespoon and turn it on high. Remember, it should taste like the ocean.”

"I thought we'd burn water," Ocelot says, while Nadine rolls her eyes.

“You can’t burn water. It’s just a turn of phrase. Come on, you two." Kaz kisses them both on the cheek. “You can do it, okay? I'll make us some drinks.”

'86 was indeed a good year for Napa Valley's Cab Sav, but Nadine's the wine fan in the house. Kaz pulls out the Martin Miller's he got as a sort of white elephant present last Christmas from Nadine's oldest brother Germaine. For a fairly new brand of gin, though, it's not bad. He holds Ocelot's drink hostage until he's got the chicken simmering in the sauce and the pasta drained. It's just that jarred cacciatore from the stupid commercials where everyone does the chicken dance. It's impossible to fuck it up.

They eat in the dimly lit dining room. Ocelot and Nadine are still chatting about all the wonderful shops they saw and all the money they spent when she finally notices his glasses are off.

“Oh, Ben, you didn’t put the strap on.”

“Probably left in my pocket." Kaz washes down a bite of pasta with gin.

Nadine puts on the shades, frowning. "Geez. I can barely see a thing. Why do you -" and she takes them off.

“Why do I what?"

“It's nothing."

"Go ahead. Ask me. I'm feeling like an open book tonight."

"Wayne told me... you were exposed to an experimental bioweapon in Vietnam. And I was - I was wondering." She glances between the two of them. Hesitating. "Back when I was still working, I saw a lot of guys who'd been exposed to Agent Orange or whatever, but I’ve never seen anything, or anyone like you. I just. I was wondering.”

“Hmm. That's highly classified information you're asking for."

Then again, he's been waiting for this. Cathy's not here. No time like the present.

 "And it's in the freezer."

The cylinder takes the place of the cacciatore pot. Kaz presses a button and slides it open with a click. Quiet is much smaller than she used to be; the thick oil slick fills only six test tubes. Nadine leans forward on her elbows, fascinated.

"It's the same color as his eyes." She tilts her head. "Ah, wait - I can't see anything."

"Your husband sees something different," Ocelot tells her.

"Just looks like an oil spill to me." Kaz hasn't read any of those studies in a while. "It's some kind of residue, some weird by-product it produces. Did we ever find out what that was, or were we too busy throwing things at it to see if she'd eat it? It's not just my eyes, this damn thing almost ate an entire military base. I had to put her on pest control duty just to keep her distracted."

" _Her?_ "

"I guess it was a her. Once upon a time. By the end of it, it was just... this crap."

“A colony of parasites," Ocelot elaborates. "This subspecies in particular was a highly intelligent hivemind of photosynthetic fungal microorganisms that could feed on any biological matter. It mimics the cells of the host almost perfectly, carrying out all necessary functions. I doubt there's any trace of Ben's eyes left, and yet he can see perfectly fine."

“That's crazy! That almost sounds like what they're trying to with stem cells.”

“Not quite," Ocelot says. "For starters, they aren't human. Although one might say these have almost a human intelligence... it’s uncanny; I’ve seen them devour and replicate a human brain while the subject was still conscious."

"Still believed they were in control of their actions, too, right up till the end. At least, until -”

"The mutated colony had to be destroyed," Ocelot says firmly. "What we have here are the some of the samples we first isolated in our own research, but officially? The entire species is extinct. While the CIA had been using parasites to create mutant super-soldiers since before the second world war, the project was deemed a failure by 1975. However, a certain man felt there was still potential research to be done. After the specimens were stolen I was tasked with hunting him down."

"That's how we met."

"Imagine my surprise when the parasites turned up in your husband.”

“Wait, mutants?" Nadine looks at her wine like it'll never be enough. "Wait, wait, hold on. So... you've been protecting him.”

“Congratulations. You're one of the three people alive today who know about this.” Ocelot grins humorlessly.

No. In the end, Kaz didn’t need his protection. He did it all himself. Even the final airstrike went off at his radioed command, and Ocelot watched the bombs drop in the rearview.

"But how do you have this? I mean, shouldn't it be locked up in a lab somewhere? Oh my god." There's the panic. "How does nobody know you have this? Ben, you -"

“There's nothing to worry about. Ocelot did his duty and so did I." He leans back in his chair, remembering, then snaps a steel finger. "That's right. Did I ever tell you about when I starting developing Mcdonnell’s? The guy who created this parasite was my first test market. I tried out all my recipes on him. The tetrodoxin patty was poorly rated, though.” On a whim he'd even shaped it like fugu, with a big puffy bun Code Talker had raised an eyebrow at.

“That was my favorite.” Ocelot’s drawl is gone. “Everything else was just a command he’d given. But this one he served up himself, on a silver platter none the less.”

“Paper. And it had to be done.”

Nadine sets down her wine, seeming to realize that she's had a bit too much. It's closing in on her now; she can’t get up. Her tongue's suddenly too thick, fumbling in her mouth when she tries to ask him why he's telling her this.

Kaz glances at his watch. The thing about a diving watch is that it only measures elapsed time, there’s no countdown bezel, but he’s used to it by now.

“Because the cow goes quack.”

Nadine goes perfectly rigid. Kaz waits for it. For her eyes to defocus and cross, before she looks back and replies slowly: "And the duck goes moo."

“Finish your dinner."

There's not much left but it wouldn't do for her food to be cold. She takes all the plates obediently to the sink before sitting back down. Kaz has already fetched the tape he's made for when Ocelot is here along with the Walkman. She smiles, dazed, and very slowly folds her arms on the table and brings down her head to rest on them. Still slower than swimming through soup, but the routine is down pat.

"Have a nice dream, okay?" And he slips the headphones over her ears.

Forty-five minutes.

"Not bad, huh?”

But Ocelot isn't smiling anymore. Only leaning back steeping his hands together so he can tap, tap, tap his index fingers together. If he didn’t conceal his weapons in the house, he’d be spinning a revolver. “When did all this start?”

“Well, I started off with her mother. Videotapes. Manager’s training. I’ve been researching all this stuff for a while, you know. You know how many times we've had to read those damn baby books? The tape's all just positive reinforcement. What I give her is the power to rewrite her own memories in whatever she finds palatable. I'm glad you're here, actually. You represent all the crap she doesn't want to know. A safe object for her to project all questions onto. See, Nadine has this idea that she can keep everything under control - control she’s had to rescind being with me. While I can't exactly control her, but what I can do is take away a few of the blocks she's always shuffling into place.”

"And it works."

"This is the third time I've told her about my eyes."

“Hm.”

“Something wrong?”

“I’m just wondering why you didn’t ask me for help.”

“Right," Kaz snorts. "Because you did such a stellar job with me and the phantom.”

“I _let_ you remember,” Ocelot snaps. “Besides, you were burning enough holes in your brain already with all that cheap gin and cocaine. And the phantom was designed to break. But by all means, Miller. Go ahead. Show me your work.”

“What, are you mad I managed to do something on my own for once?" Kaz glances under the table though, just to check. "Drop the act. I know that’s not a revolver in your pocket.”

The strange tightness doesn't quite disappear, but something changes when Ocelot scrapes back his chair. Kaz holds out his bionic and takes one hand. All the tendons and wrinkles and scars are apparent even through the gloves.

“You know why I’m doing this,” Kaz tells him.

“Yes.”

"It isn't exactly easy here. She sees me using my iDroid. We _live_ together. If she ever started digging around on her own..."

"And your daughter?"

"I'm not worried about Cathy. Kids believe anything and listen to nothing. Besides, she's _my_ daughter."

"I see," Ocelot says, even if his eyes are blank.

"So quit looking at me like I'm a stranger and let me suck your dick. Geez, I'm surprised you can even get hard right now. You're getting too old for this."

At that, Ocelot chuckles.

It’s nice concentrating on just Ocelot for once. Feeling the weight of him on his tongue, the clean smell of his sweat, thumbing his thighs to let him know exactly where he is. Ocelot rolls his hips a little, not quite fucking his throat so much as toying with the idea of it. As always his stamina is ridiculous. Not for the first time Kaz wonders how exactly the Philosophers raised him, and then remembers that he knows a bit too much.

After Ocelot pulls him up onto his lap and licks a line of cum off his chin. Shoving it to his mouth. Kaz’s thumbs move in slow circles on his abs, just enjoying the feel of him. Fifteen more minutes till the headphones come off.

“I used to wonder,” Ocelot murmurs, “if I shouldn’t have cut off both your legs.”

Kaz’s thumbs keep moving, albeit slower.

“I could keep you wherever I liked. What choice would you have? Pick you up and set you down right on top of me. You wouldn’t be able to ride me without my help, of course, but I’d never have to tie you down again. I could just stash you in a closet, but don't worry: I'd make everyone else pay before they had a chance at you.” Ocelot nips his ear, too hard. It'll leave marks. "Not like they'd want you once the novelty wore off."

"Do I get to keep an arm, at least?"

"You can sign checks with a pen in your mouth."

That old Ocelot who would tear into him with nothing but spit and choke him till he blacked out hasn't shown up in a long time. It's a big maybe, but maybe Ocelot’s torture fetish hasn't quite been satisfied with regards to him.

But Ocelot smiles, really smiles now, and kisses him before asking, “What else could I do to you that hasn’t already done?”

That's one hell of a question that never needs to be answered.

"...Why didn't you tell me you were coming, Ocelot? What are you doing here?"

"Wayne. And, well. I guess I just missed you."

In the morning Ocelot's gone before Nadine can even crack an extra egg.

 

 

On the first day of Golden Week Kaz doesn't go to the Japanese garden in Pasadena. Instead he locks the doors, closes the blinds, and turns on the news. The South Central McDonnell is gone - at least, until the flames die down and the insurance pays out - and the cable goes out soon after.

The LAPD was asking for it. Soon Ja Du was asking for it the day she opened fire on a kid trying to buy some candy. Everyone in this goddamn overstuffed city was asking for it the moment they failed to pick up a newspaper and put one and two and six together and realize shit was about to hit the fan. The entire country was asking for it.

Anyone could have asked Kazuhira Miller about it. It's nothing he hasn't seen before. From Soweto in 1976 to the Tunisian bread riots, whether Kaz was writing up the graduated response matrix himself, planting armed insurgents among civilians, or cleaning up the aftermath, a riot is a riot is a riot. 

Even the Japanese managed to riot, not a month after he'd figured Mishima proved it impossible.

This time, though, Kaz has nothing to do. If Diamond Dogs or Merryweather are here, he doesn't know it; right now he's just hopes whatever eyes on him are watching closely. His .45 won't be too helpful if a bunch of armed thugs from any side of the line come knocking.

Days pass. Kaz sleeps soundly while Nadine grows haggard.

The house in Los Feliz is safe enough, he supposed, tucked in the hills below Griffith Park. But if he drove up the canyon road towards the observatory, he’d be able to see the fires.

On the fourth night of rioting Kaz turns off the panicked babble of the radio and considers his tear-stained wife slumped beside it. The landline is still dangling from her hands, cord stretched across the dining room.

Kaz hangs it up and checks his watch. Maybe this time, he'll use the benzos.

“Mommy?”

Kaz looks under the table to see Cathy curled up, arms tangled in the legs of a chair with Roger Frog sticking in her mouth.

“Hey, kiddo. Shouldn’t you be asleep?”

“I gotta potty,” she mumbles, and brings Roger Frog’s foot back to her mouth. It’s actually Kermit. She chose a better name.

“You’re a big girl. You can use the potty all by yourself.”

She shakes her head. “I gotta potty.”

Kaz sighs, rubbing his face. “Let me put Mommy to bed, okay? Then I'll help you go potty.”

Cathy doesn't need any help in the bathroom. Once he sets her butt up on the toilet he's ordered to face the wall.

“Is Uncle Germaine gonna die?”

Kaz very nearly bangs his forehead against the wall.

“Of course not. Nobody’s gonna die, everybody’s gonna be fine, and once everything calms down Daddy’s just gonna shell out a _lot_ of money on bail. Aren't you supposed to be going potty?”

“I don’t know,” she wails. “My tummy hurts.”

Fucking Nadine. He kept telling to calm down, and she had to go and get all mad, and now Cathy’s stressed out and awake well past her bedtime. He turns and crouches over her, feels her forehead. Not sick. Just stressed.

“Come on, kiddo. Let’s go for a drive.”

Cathy loves going on drives with Daddy, but tonight she whines and puts her hands over her ears. Kaz is pretty sure he’s got some kind of permanent hearing loss himself. It gets quieter on the canyon road. The observatory is closed, moonlit and devoid of searchlights. They walk around the dome, hand in hand, until Kaz has a fine enough view of the red below.

No, it's not the first riot he's seen, but it's the first time he's had so little skin in the game. So he lost a McDonnell’s or two, and he’s obviously out however many bail bonds, but there’s a nice hot breeze in his hair. Those could be police or military choppers overhead, unless KTTV has Hind-Ds now.

He doesn’t hear the spurs jingling until it's too late. Ocelot could have been here this whole time, hidden behind one of the white pillars along the walkway. In his blue suit he could be anyone whose only stake here is property damage.

“Hello, Catherine,” is all he says, and not even the power of a five year old crashing into his legs can unsteady him.

“You’re still in L.A.”

“I was never here.” He looks at Cathy like he isn't quite sure what to do with her, even though she's begging to be picked up.

“Were you waiting for this? If you ask me, it's been a long time coming."

“I'm only here to collect data.” Ocelot spreads his hands in one of his theatrical little gestures, as if the entirety of the past week is something he’s got hidden in his palm.

“On what, riot control?”

“Our goals are a much more specific kind of crowd control. Less violence and property damage involved, too.”

“Mommy’s sick,” Cathy cuts in.

Ocelot ignores her. “Unlike trained soldiers, the actions of civilians in a state of unrest are harder to predict. They panic. Mothers turn violent, grown men curl up weeping. Law-abiding citizens turn to looting while the real criminals go into hiding, and any one person may, with the right words, change the tide of the mob. You know how this works. People need a leader, especially in chaos. That’s why we’ve planted a few of our own.”

“You made this happen?”

“The seeds were sown hundreds of years ago; we’re only reaping a harvest."

"Yeah, I'm not a fucking idiot, Ocelot. I'm asking about _this_ , specifically, as in, did the Patriots shoot Latasha Harlins." Did _Ocelot?_

"Of course not, Miller. But it sure was a convenient accident." This Ocelot loves the sound of his own voice more than direct questions. "The people we’ve planted here have been injected with nanomachines that can monitor and control everything - heart rate, breathing patterns, even the ability to throw a rock or raise a voice is controlled by the nervous system. So if we can control - if we can _be_ the nervous system of even a few key players, in any state of societal breakdown...”

“Sounds like an end to civil disturbance for good.”

“This is only a test. If we had this kind of technology back in the sixties, Fred Hampton might have never even happened. We've been experimenting with something like this for a long time, but it took Diamond Dogs R&D and a rogue parasite to finish the job."

Kaz wipes his face with his cool steel hand, the one that isn’t shaking on his daughter’s shoulder. "But just because everyone acts like nothing's wrong -"

“Sure, ideas will fester. But who will write about them when no one can read it? Who will speak when no one listens? In time, all ideas will die, and society will finally be sane. That's the equality of slavery for you." He holds out two all-encompassing hands. " _This_ is what Big Boss fails to understand. He has no idea what sort of war he's fighting. Even if he should fire one off one of his nukes, he'd have no clue where to strike."

The Ocelot Kaz is seeing now isn’t the one who tells Cathy bedtime stories about Sheriff Wildcat and the bandits. This Ocelot eyes Cathy like the odd cougar eyeing a jogger at the Rose Bowl.

“Kaz. Don’t take McDonnell’s national.”

“What are you talking about?" Kaz balks. "We’re a franchisor. All I’m doing is selling a brand to other entrepreneurs. The only thing that determines how big we get is the market. Besides, I put it all in my mother-in-law’s name.”

“Miller, the Patriots don’t care about your business structure. They care that an up-and-coming brand - a new meme, if you will, - is sweeping across the West Coast. Where do your franchisees purchase food from? Who pumps gasoline into their trucks? Who supplies the toilet paper and the mopheads? Did you forget about those details? I used to read your books every time you passed out. Have you read anything but a children’s book in the past five years?”

“All right, so I retired! I didn’t think the Patriots were controlling fucking Sysco. This is America, not some desert scrapyard fighting over whether to use the few measly arable acres they’ve got on opium or wheat. I thought -”

“You know more than anybody how vital resource management is,” Ocelot snaps. “The water in your pipes, the electricity in your home, the gasoline in the tractor that plows the field, it’s all under control. Miller, you've been working for the Patriots since Snake left you to a phantom; did you truly believe you could just _disappear?”_

“Daddy, look!”

They both look to a tall column of flame, but Kaz shuts his eyes.

“This goes far beyond whatever you might have imagined and when it ends, it _all_ ends. If you want to keep your daughter safe, drop the burgers and teach her how to fish. Teach her how to survive.”

If Kaz wanted to avoid this feeling he could have hooked up with the post-menopausal one.

That night, when Ocelot philosophized and gestured into the wee hours, when Kaz looked up at him in a gin-drenched haze and saw two kings, hand in hand, at the end of it all, was eight years ago. Two decades ago Kaz birthed a nation, nursed it with his sweat and blood, and then he got the hell out and realized that metaphor was bullshit.

“So that’s it, then.”

“Yes.”

“You know, I’ve been thinking I could stand to get out of the city for a while. How about it, huh? Let’s go to Vegas. Nadine's still sleeping, we can just stick her in the back seat and tell her we got wasted. When was the last time we went to a casino?”

“Monaco. 1980.”

"That must've been right before the Seychelles job, huh? We were just killing time after the meeting, but you... Jesus, you were colluding with the goddamn dealer.” Kaz chuckles. "I was furious with you."

"You got the money in the end."

“And the cocaine with it." Kaz leans forward on the balustrade, remembering. Yeah, he'd like to take Ocelot to Vegas. "Was that when I threw all those bills on the bed and told you to - ?”

“Yes.” Ocelot nods. “And in the morning... [you were holding the bills to the fan.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12570024/chapters/28795029%22) I remember.”

“How about it, Cathy? You wanna go to Vegas? See the circus? They got white tigers."

She's been jumping on her tip-toes trying to get a look at the fires. "Tigers?"

"Real white tigers, baby girl. But we'll stick a pin in that for now." Kaz taps his chin. "Where’s David at these days? Didn’t he just get back from Kuwait?”

Ocelot gives him a keen look. “Last year. Word has it, FOXHOUND's interested in him.”

“FOXHOUND?”

“Yes. I hear they've even preparing an extended desert survival training course at Fort Irwin. Could come in handy in the Kalahari."

"That's out by Barstow, huh. Not too far a move. Nadine'll go for it."

"What are you planning?”

“You’re right, Ocelot. I’ve been out of the game too long. But I haven’t forgotten what I told you or the Patriots. If the world’s going to burn then I'm throwing Snake into the fire myself. That kid’s the last of those terrible infants around. Might be the best shot we got.”

“He’s likely to be the agent no matter what you do.”

“Yeah, well, I wanna see him for myself. God forbid we get another Big Boss on our hands.”

There's the smile he was waiting for. Kaz grins, pecks him on the cheek. Scoops up his daughter and kisses her, too, then leans back against the cold stone wall of the observatory and watches the city burn.

Whatever comes, Cathy will survive.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: it's impossible to write about Los Angeles in the early 90's without mentioning the riots. Obviously Kaz's take is _nuclear hot._
> 
> Anyways now we know why at the end of MGS2 literally nobody is freaking out about how the President just got killed by a ninja after smashing a Metal Gear into the Federal Building: NANOMACHINES.
> 
> Next chapter: you know we're gonna have to talk about BBKaz. and Bosselot. who was it who said you can't have ocekaz without the sweaty commando elephant in the room.


	9. THE BEAST WE WORSHIP

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to the writer of [this article](http://www.businessinsider.com/heres-what-its-like-at-sere-training-2014-12) for giving me a little insight. 
> 
> And special thanks to the kids in Metal Gear 2: Solid Snake for supplying the rest of the inspiration for the exercise described. What is this kid doing behind a door I had to blast with C4 to open? Well, now I know. 
> 
> Warnings for: the author doesn't particularly care about BBKaz _or_ Bosselot, I'm edgy like that, and, all the rest.

**JULY, 1993**

At 0245 Kaz turns off the clock radio at the first beep. Nadine sleeps through it by now, but Cathy slipped in between them again last night. He strokes her cheek, soothing her back to sleep.

The phantom pain is back with such a vengeance strapping on his bionic doesn’t help. He swallows a gabapentin and gets dressed in less than a minute. A minute and a half when he remembers he’s got to blouse his boots now.

At the first _bang_ he drops his shades and swears. The Barstow condo is small and thin-walled. Sounds like a fist on the front door tend to carry.

Cathy moans. Nadine raises her head, muttering.

“I’m sorry,” Kaz tells them, kissing and shushing. “I’m so, so sorry.”

Outside Snake is leaning against one of the stucco pillars that’s supposed to make the front door look regal or something, smoking. He looks like he pulled an all-nighter. Like he’s too damn old to be here before 0300.

It’s not the first time they’ve seen each other, but Kaz’s status as a civilian contractor means he spends more time with his KO than the commander. They’ve met eyes. Passed each other in halls. Kaz has heard mumbles about how he _never knew Campbell swung that way_ that would have pissed Kaz off years ago. As if he’d ever felt shame for sleeping his way into jobs.

Now Kaz just sighs and says, “I got a car, Snake.”

Snake rolls his head to the side. Right, and today he's got a chauffeur.

“Coffee?”

That’s a yes. Kaz always gets a pot ready right before he goes to bed. All he has to do is push a button and wait while Snake creeps down the hallway to the open bedroom door.

Coffee spills. Kaz hisses.

The sudden stink of cigar smoke wafting over them doesn't wake up the girls. Indoor smoking is against the terms of their lease, but Kaz hands Snake his coffee silently. Four gulps later he takes back the empty mug. Goes back to the kitchen. Puts it in the sink and then braces his hands on the counter.

The nice thing about the bionic hand is that it never shakes.

A Range Rover is parked behind Kaz’s blue Roadmaster, sleek and civilian. Kaz isn’t surprised; he expected anything from a Humvee to a limo. Even a bright red sports car would fit Snake as well as his short-clipped grey hair.

“So the samurai got bored of playing house,” Snake finally says.

Kaz shrugs. Checks his ponytail in the mirror. “You know me, Snake.”

It’s about a forty minute drive from Barstow to the gates of Fort Irwin. Less than thirty if you speed. Snake drives slow.

Thick cigar smoke soothes his parasites. Kaz lights a cigarette and rolls down the window anyways. His flesh fingers thrum when he drifts them through the air. This would be a beautiful drive at sunrise or sunset, but gliding through the dark in the dry hot wind isn’t so bad.

“What happened to your geisha pipe?”

Kaz has spent a year learning this desert. To the right are the painted mountains he went camping in just last week. Nadine brought tinned food and jerky; Kaz taught Cathy how to catch a kangaroo rat in a deadfall trap.

“That’s a luxury, Snake. I save that for home.”

South of here is an entire forest of gnarled and spiny joshua trees that still look alien to him. Like the saguaro cactus, the Mojave is the only place they grow. Outside of the Americas they say the San people of the Kalahari use the hoodia cactus as an appetite suppressant, but that singular cactus is the only one that isn’t found here.

A couple hundred million years ago this desert was an ocean. If Kaz examined each stripe of color on the mountains he’d be able to read the entire history, and if he doesn’t break the silence it’ll only drag on forever.

There were whole speeches planned, written by Ocelot and revised by himself. Rage, apologies, excuses, all delivered to the stars and answered by coyotes. He can’t remember any of them right now.

Snake was a young man’s monster. Kaz knows better ones now.

“I guess I have been avoiding you,” he says finally.

Snake hmms. “I noticed.”

“I figured the first time I saw you I’d have to fight you. Just walk right up and punch you in the face. Professionalism and the chain of command be damned.”

“You never cared for either.”

“But that’s not what I came to FOXHOUND for.” He takes a long drag, as if he expects Snake to ask the natural follow-up question Snake certainly didn’t drive all this way to answer. “You saw my daughter, right?”

Snake grunts.

“She’s almost seven. Seems like just yesterday I was changing her diapers.” He used to press her feet on his cheeks and kiss her little toes, all fresh and dusted with baby powder.

“They grow up fast.”

Snake has a few kids of his own these days. An entire army of hungry mouths, hands dusted with gunpowder.

Not for the first time Kaz wonders what would’ve happened if he hadn’t grabbed that nuke. If he’d never taken those calls, if he hadn’t been too damn cute for his own good in the first place, Snake might still be crunching fish bones in the  jungle. If the salmonella hadn't gotten to him first.

If only.

“Sure I thought I could put it all behind me. Sit around playing house, making burgers. Like I didn’t already know that the only world she’ll live to see is the one you make. You're gonna change the world whether I'm there for it or not."

“Kaz.”

“I’ve been training her to survive out here. You should see her, out in her little pink sunhat. She's a real trooper. Sucking on cactus meat, catching horned toads...”

“Hmm. Too spiky for me. You tried a chuckwalla yet?”

“The big ones? They’re a bit hard to catch.”

“They kinda puff up when they hide in the crevices,” Snake says slowly. “You just got to get a real good grab on them.”

"Yeah? I'll have to try that sometime." Kaz huffs. “Look, Snake. I don’t expect a place at your side anymore. I just want to know if there’s a future for my kid.”

The car jerks to the side, tires scraping into dirt. Kaz hits the seatbelt hard enough to bruise.

“There’s a place in Outer Heaven for everyone, Kaz."

Kaz counts the inhale, the exhale. His blood is thrumming. “...Thanks.”

"You said she’s seven now."

“What do you say? Sixteen?”

“Thirteen. When she's thirteen, you bring her to me."

Of course. He wasn’t expecting anything else. If anything thirteen might be too old.

They’re just dark shapes in the car. Snake looms close, as if he could blot out the stars if not the residual glow of the headlights. "But if that’s the truth, Kaz, why don’t you live on base?”

“What, so she can grow up surrounded by the American flag and a hoo-rah? It’s all a little too suburban for me. I don’t even wanna know what Fourth of July looks like there.”

“Not every soldier’s a patriot. If you want to raise a warrior -”

“You think I don’t know what FOXHOUND is?”

Snake leans back. Kaz counts his breaths.

“Letting you hand-pick the cream of the crop, training them however you like, while USSOCOM turns a blind eye and you get to hire some secretary you used to screw in the seventies. Ocelot taught us both that anyone can be Big Boss; I’m just surprised he isn’t here hypnotizing all of the recruits. They’re even sending you your own clone to work on. We know exactly what this is.”

“That’s why I brought my XO with me. The training we do here is the same we do in Outer Heaven. If you want to see the future, go to South Africa.”

The XO in question is the other white-haired man who has also apparently been Snake’s best friend since the sixties or _whatever_. Slightly less creepy-looking than Ocelot and not even half as dangerous.

“Besides, she doesn’t need to be you. She’s gonna be like her old man. The hand that signs the checks.”

“Or else I’ll just stick her in the mess hall.”

Kaz flinches. He can’t help it. A hand slithers around his shoulders, and Snake’s voice drops even lower. Right next to his ear.

“I used to wonder why you stuck around, Kaz. Like you thought confession would absolve you.”

Oddly Catholic way of putting it. “I used to wonder why you didn’t shove me off the side.”

“Don’t like paperwork." Snake hmms. "We could use you in Outer Heaven, Kaz. If you ever go to South Africa -”

“Why the _hell_ would I -” The cigarette’s already down to the filter. Kaz flicks it out the window. “Come on, Snake, do we really need to talk about this? I know. I betrayed you first, you left me to - to blindly screw your body double while Ocelot stuck a finger in my brain. Kind of think we can call it square by now.”

Snake turns his head. Tilts up his sunglasses. It's too dark and there’s nothing in Kaz’s clouded eyes for him to read, but he leans closer, still staring. Kaz remembers this part. Hypnotic, right, like that bit with the snake in the Jungle Book. Cathy likes to get up and spin herself dizzy during that scene.

The way Ocelot put it - the way Snake sees it -putting something in storage isn’t necessarily giving up ownership. True, until you forget to pay rent on the unit and all your shit ends up auctioned off to the highest bidder.

Kaz goes in for the kiss first. Scraping, rough, tasting like cigar. All those years of screwing Ocelot have taught him how to properly make out, at least. He appreciates the lack of teeth. Just for kicks, he pulls back and says, "Hey, I don't cheat on my wife."

“So I did teach you something after all,” Snake chuckles, and sticks a hand down Kaz’s pants.

Kaz will play a role, but he isn’t going to fuck him in the car. They’re too damned big and too damned old for that. It’s Snake’s bullish insistence on re-establishing a pecking order that gets him in the backseat, and the memory of a friendly reminder from Ocelot that allows him to relax when Snake slides all ten obese inches in with one push.

Kaz hits his head on the rear passenger window. Something awful happens to his lower back when Big Boss wraps an arm around his neck - only to twist his head for a kiss, of course.

They make it to the gates on time and silently part ways.

Kaz could have been a drill instructor if he wanted to scream his way to an aneurysm. His dubious title of “survival master” means he gets to spend most of his days in the classroom. Safety briefings are way outside his jurisdiction, and he doesn’t get to balance any budgets, but he does get to write plenty of evaluations.

FOXHOUND is only borrowing space at Fort Irwin, and even among the barracks they’re treated as some kind of mysterious force. Kaz is basically a non-entity, but as someone who can keep Big Boss’s dick happy he ought to be able to do whatever the hell he wants.

Like tell his personal POW story after escorting out the old barker from 'Nam who whacked his head a bit too hard in the spike trap. It’s too bad Snake isn’t here to hear it, but he’s too busy prepping for the field portion of the SERE-C refresher course to hear Kaz crack jokes about the time a Soviet nearly stuck his dick in his eye.

A nervous titter sounds from the back of the room.

“Did I say something funny?” he snaps.

“No, Master."

“What, am I the only one with a sense of humor in here?” Kaz grins. He knows he looks wolfish like this, glasses and teeth and arm alike gleaming. “The thing that surprised me the most, though, was that no one went after my stumps. Two big holes wetter than a pussy? I guess hitting a bone would've made it all a bit too gay for them. You know how the commies are. Not a degenerate soul in the entirety of Mother Russia.”

A few chuckles this time, easier.

“If you can’t find the humor in a situation like that, kids, you don't stand a chance.”

A few of the recruits have indeed been held captive before. They’re the cream of the crop from the Green Berets, Night Stalkers, Delta Force - in fact, the former POWs are the ones who might best be shaped into Big Boss. All of them have little to no family on the outside, and all have that hunger all the dirt-black-ops in the world couldn't sate.

They get it. They can laugh.

The only one who doesn't laugh is David.

The thing about David is that he isn’t half the lone wolf he pretends to be. In the commons room he turns the television to ballet and shoves hands off the remote to demonstrate just how difficult it is to stand en pointe. FOXHOUND is the last place in the world for a goof who likes Tonya Harding and always has an extra smoke to hand out.

David ought to go desk force. By now he could be a part of that legendary stealth unit known as the E-4 mafia, who Kaz has never seen but apparently are the ones who _really_ run this base. The Green Berets do say humans are more important than hardware, and the kid still puts his fucking hands in his pockets. It isn't even disgust in his eyes, it's _sympathy_.

But David says, “That’s what they told us in the Green Berets.”

“You ever been captured, kid?”

“Not yet.” He grins. “Count my lucky stars every day, Master.”

Not for the first time Kaz is grateful for his shades. "Well. Now that you all know how bad it can get, we’re gonna show you how easy it can be. Because if a lesson is worth learning once, it’s worth grinding to repetition.”

“Horse ain’t dead till TRADOC says it is,” someone affirms.

“Damn straight.”

They’ve been going through a lot of refresher courses.

Kaz goes with them for the survive and evade part. This is where learning to track with the mujahideen comes into handy. Back in Los Angeles Kaz figured he’d have to study for this, until he realized he’d made money off Robin Sage and Swan and Dingo’s Costa Rican Bridge Trap actually worked. He could teach Ragnar Benson a thing or two.

It'd almost be fun if Cathy was here. Right now the longest ruck Cathy can handle is five miles carrying her Lisa Frank backpack stuffed with an extra water, sunblock, and Roger Frog. Carrying her piggyback the other ten miles is Kaz’s rucksack.

The exercise ends in a burst of paintballs, careful beatings that break no bones, and bags thrown over heads. And then, for all intents and purposes, it truly ends.

Nothing happens. Once they're tied and tossed in cells the door locks and never opens again. They expected isolation. They might wait days on end with name, rank, serial number, and low-worth information on the tips of their tongues, while their cell gets hotter and the oxygen runs lower.

Kaz understands this part all too intimately. The Soviets didn’t interrogate him either.

They have nothing to offer. They are forgotten, in that black place still as the tomb and hotter than hell. Kaz has been there; Snake probably never left.

Of course, if the recruits do manage to wriggle free, they could scrape around the room. Find the one hollow spot in a wall plastered over and break through with their fists. Scrabble until their nails bleed and crawl through a tight tunnel until they find a key. The exercise ends whenever they decide it does. They're supposed to go to that dark place and then find themselves and save themselves or whatever. Breaking the rules is the only way to win.

Kaz suggested they add a water-bottle along with the keycard - a small one, enhanced with electrolytes. After stewing in their own piss they deserve it. Besides, treating the more serious effects of dehydration would cut into training time.

And yes, fine, the cells are equipped with sensors, and if someone’s on the verge of dying they can drag them out. Those ones get sent home. The truth is, most of them figure it out in time.

No permanent damage, see. No one’s looking to get court-martialed. Kaz can only wonder how this all works in Outer Heaven.

They get their code names once they come out. It's all based on how long they spent there. Snake explained the logic while Kaz flashed back to doing lines off a volume of the New Encyclopedia Britannica with Ocelot, but naturally David becomes a Snake. The kid spent two days in the hole.

Back in the classroom Kaz makes them all present their essays about what they learned and where they went. Some to a place in their past. Some to white static. Some over-philosophize, but David says, "The aurora borealis."

“The aurora borealis,” Kaz repeats.

“Yeah.”

“You wanna elaborate on that?”

David shrugs.

Kaz shakes his head. “Take a tip from me. Go to the future."

Kaz thinks of the future all the time. The knots he gets in his back from being bent over Snake’s desk will fall to Nadine’s practised hands. In 1999 Cathy will be thirteen -

And Snake will be dead and the rest of the world with it. He grips his cane so tight his fingers thrum. It's not something he uses often. Just one of those days. 

"The past, the present, that's nothing. The thing every mission has in common in that one day it ends, and either you win or you die. And you know what happens when you die?"

Kaz doesn’t let them answer that. Last they need is a metaphysical discussion between a bunch of Big Boss wannabes who just stepped out of their own coffins.

“You finally get a goddamn day off, that's what.”

 

 

It's good to be busy again. To turn on the news and rather than let it all drift by, focus. President Clinton says some shit about don't ask, don't tell; Kaz laughs and records it. Still no peace in the Middle East, but in the wake of the Gulf War oil prices are going up. Talk turns to biofuel, and Kaz remembers a deal he may or may not have made with Monsanto once. The thing in the freezer is really taking a toll on Nadine. Ocelot seems dubious, but Ocelot is also a solid D in R&D. If he could he'd get rid of the whole damn thing, but he wouldn't be surprised if Ocelot left a sample or two lying around.

It’s the only time Uncle Wayne visits while Kaz is at FOXHOUND.

Sometimes he smells cologne on Snake’s skin that belongs to an Ocelot he'll never be allowed to meet. For all Kaz knows there's a some secret torture class for those certain special recruits going on. That’s none of his business. His business is David. The way Ocelot put it, he's a parent. All the experiece in mentorship he needed.

And Kaz said something like _yeah I’d hate to see you try to raise a kid_ and then he’d given the phone to Cathy so she could tell Uncle Wayne about the goose that bit her yesterday.

Every time he tries to talk to David his tongue gums up his throat. Still, he finds himself lingering after him. In the commissary that is still unchecked on his LOA card, in the commons room, at the edge of the training field while the sun beats down past his shades, while Grey Fox slings an arm over his shoulders. No one else received the codename of Fox, but he came out of the tomb and into the arms of Big Boss long before any of these ones did.

So, bring your daughter to work day. It's every day if Kaz wants it to be. In the classroom, baking beneath the sun of the training field, wherever. She’s charming enough, and while Big Boss stares at her from afar David is entranced by her.

Confused, too, but he figures it out by the end of a week. Comes bursting in Kaz’s office while he’s packing up to go home.

“She’s your future,” David says, snapping his fingers. “I was wondering why you brought your kid to work. I get it now.”

Kaz levels a look at him. “Yeah?”

“You’re reminding us all that we have a future.”

“I’m reminding you that you’re still human. That no matter how much they hype you up on being a lone ranger, no man is an island. Those lessons you’ll learn in solitude only matter when you put them in the context of society."

David understands. His record says he was shuffled from foster home to foster home. Isolation in a crowded room breeds a certain sense of learned empathy. 

“Some of the guys you’ll see here go home and think they’re heroes for not beating their wives. Some of them go crazy and start carbombing teachers. You wanna end up like Frank Camper?"

"Who?"

"Taught a merc school out in Alabama. He's in prison now." Benedict Miller might have worked with him once. Kaz isn't too clear on his resume. "The lucky ones are the ones who drink themselves to death. The smart ones are the ones who blow their brains out. Hell, my wife used to work at the VA. Ask her. Everything you’re learning here is for the mission. But one day -"

"The mission ends."

"And one day your back won’t work like it used to and your dick will be all about useless, and none of the shit you’re learning here is gonna help you with that. The purpose of FOXHOUND is to turn you into a weapon that holds its own trigger. I’m here to teach you how to be your own safety.”

Something’s clicked, now. The kid nods, slow and measured. “Big Boss said... a strong man doesn’t need to worry about his future. He’ll make his own when he’s there.”

“Yeah, and General MacArthur says automatic weapons are mightier than the pen that signs your weapons card.”

David does a terrible job at hiding his chuckle inside a cough. “He also said a real man doesn’t need body armor.”

“Hah -” Kaz catches himself. “Look, I’m not telling you to disrespect your CO, kid. Just don’t let him get too far into your head.”

David ducks his head respectfully. "Thanks, Master."

"I'd tell you to call me Ben, but I'm still your teacher."

Some of the recruits think all bets are off when it comes to civilians. David respects the game. He's about to leave, but he turns back, awkward again.

“How long have you known Big Boss?”

“Big Boss? When I first met him, they still called him Snake.”

“...Oh.”

“Why’d you think I’m giving you all this special attention?”

David blushes.

Too good for this damn world. Kaz doesn't keep booze in his desk, but he'd like to take a drink.

Sadly, Kaz's career as a mentor comes to an abrupt end when he opens the door and sees Snake bent over his own desk, head buried in his arms, and the strangest Ocelot he's ever seen holding him down.

Ocelot mouths _no_ but it’s too late.

“Oh, so you let _him_ \- “

But Snake’s up already. Gathering himself. Whatever place Ocelot sends him to is long gone when he strides up and grabs Kaz by the neck. Throws him to Ocelot like a piece of baggage.

“You know what to do.”

“Yes, Boss.”

Kaz does forget most of it, four beers later on the hood of the Roadmaster, with all the glory of the Milky Way spread above them. Ocelot lies back, talks with his hands about how Kaz played all of his cards wrong and how topping Snake is actually his birthright until Kaz snatches one hand out of the air.

The moon is full tonight, but he has a question to ask.

"There's no way you didn't plan for that to happen."

Ocelot relaxes, smiling. "My relationship with Big Boss is entirely none of your business."

Kaz snorts. "You can tell me if you love him. I won’t get mad. Thirty years can do that to a guy.”

“Who was your first love, Miller?”

“Don’t answer with another question.”

“There had to be someone. Someone you met, when you were young. In America for the first time, all on your lonesome…”

Kaz sighs. Yeah, he can remember. The leaves were red, Kaz was on the verge of dropping out, and she came along with auburn hair and perky tits. “I was nineteen. She was my tutor. I just - I wanted to - gosh, I might have wanted to marry her.”

“Mm-hmm. And what would you say, if you saw her today?”

“Would I even recognize her?” Kaz thinks about it. Yes, he would. “But that’s got nothing to do with what I’m asking about.”

Ocelot frowns.

“You’re at least _supposed_ to be in love with him. You can’t tell me there isn’t some version of you that isn’t. I get it. Whether he’s the love of your life or not, you can manipulate him with that connection. And when he dies, you’ll prove your loyalty for sure. It’s not like they don’t know he’s going to move against them. Right now, we’re just…” Kaz throws up his metal hand, beer sloshing. “Just milking as much out of him as we can. Letting him think he’s going to win. That’s what I’m doing, right? But hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if the phantom was public knowledge by now. There’s no way.”

“La-li-lu-le-lo." Barely above a whisper.

“ _What?_ ”

He’s heard something like that. Recited in classrooms, in a language that doesn’t even have that consonant. It’s pure gibberish. But Ocelot relaxes, smiling. “And what would you say, if you saw her today?”

There’s a reason Kaz hasn’t used the line on him in a long time. He'd considered it, while Ocelot glitched through reality in the face of what Kaz had done to Nadine. If he pulled off the gloves, the boots - if he pulled off Ocelot’s _skin_ there’s a good chance he might find nothing at all.

Kaz flexes his flesh fingers around the bottle. Feels the thrum. “Thanks for the memories, I guess.”

Nadine is thrilled to go back to Los Feliz. In terms of favors to old war buddies, Barstow was a little past her tolerance. FOXHOUND leaves Fort Irwin soon after, the recruits scattering to fill whatever holes in their resumes. David was airborne in the Green Berets; his divers training takes him from Florida to Juneau. Every so often Kaz gets a letter. The kid’s got such a way with words Kaz can see the colors of the aurora borealis, even if he isn’t aware of his own poetry.

David visits, too. Every so often he comes to sprawl out on the couch in Los Feliz, sharp angles softened by Cathy curled up on his lap. Ocelot can’t be here to kick up his spurs on the table and debate the finer points of ice skating moves, but he does get a photo sent to his iDroid.

On New Years Eve, 1994, David goes on his first solo mission.

The Reyes-Walker clan never took too kindly to the sudden move. They celebrate New Year’s alone. Uncle Wayne looks exhausted when he shows up with two bottles of champagne, but he scoops Cathy up and carries her off to hear the latest adventures of the My Little Ponies and Sheriff Wildcat.

In the kitchen Nadine is making a mess. Ill-formed pupusas spill their filling in the pan, burning too soon. The more Kaz tries to help her the more she pushes him away.

“Ben, I’ve got this.” Champagne sloshes. “I’ve seen my mom do this hundred times.”

“Just let me show you -”

“Everything’s fine,” she insists. “Go, go see what Cathy and Wayne are up to. Don’t you have to play the Buckaroo Banzai?”

“Buckaroo Banzai hasn’t shown up in a while now. They’re in, the uh, the Seapony Kingdom now.”

She flicks burned bits from the pan. “I can never keep up with his stories.”

Kaz could agree, but Nadine seems to need some space.

He carries his bottle of champagne to the doorway of Cathy's bedroom and takes a sip right from the mouth. Too sweet for his tastes. Cross-legged on Cathy’s bed, Ocelot is braiding a pony’s tail while Cathy ties a cowboy hat on a stuffed cat.

“Hey, Wayne. Let me borrow your iDroid."

“Hm?” Ocelot looks up from worlds away. “What for?”

“I need to make a call.”

Ocelot sets down the pony carefully. “Give us a moment, Cathy.”

In the backyard Ocelot brings up the bright blue hologram. Kaz lights a cigarette that tingles his parasites while Ocelot brings up the phantom’s radio frequency. It’s live. In contact with someone else.

Kaz shakes his head as if he can clear it. He thinks about it. About him. Nodding his head in time to George Clinton with an armful of goats. That patient Mona Lisa smile hidden under his bushy beard.

Falling to his knees, scraping blood off his face that wasn’t even _there,_ looking for Quiet -

Maybe there’s goats in Outer Heaven. Maybe not.

Kaz closes the screen and hands back the iDroid.

“He knows what he is? What he needs to do?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” Kaz nods. Folds his arms, tucking his hands under. His flesh fingers are thrumming again. “That’s - that’s good.”

He knows what he is, too.

The parasites reached his bloodstream years ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One down, one to go. Comment if you got my Metal Gear (1987) and steamed hams references, all right? 
> 
> This chapter was cut in half because I realized it'd be about 10k and take me another month to write. It'll get here when it gets here.


	10. A LITTLE TWIST OF HARMONY

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey i know it's been months haha but if there's one thing i hate, it's writing in the damn summertime. seasonal depression? _mercury in retrograde._ im at the point where if i don't post this now i never will. i've also kind of lost a lot of free time in my offline existence, so there's that too, whoops. let's go.

_“Starting to wonder if Tonya swung that baton herself.” David's chuckle is clipped, short, but at least his words aren't slurred. “I had this thought, when I first came up to Alaska, maybe I’d learn to ice skate.”_

_“Lots of ice around there, huh?” Three and a few thousand miles away, Kaz looks out the sliding glass door to where the backyard lawn is turning brown._

_“Not just ice. There's mountains, trees - you should see the moose, they're huge - and the salmon...” David trails off. Boots stamp, a door shuts behind him. “Master, you knew something was wrong with him. Didn't you?”_

_“I knew something was going on, all right.”_

_“But did you -”_

_“I had no idea the son of a bitch had gotten_ nukes.”

 

**NOVEMBER, 1997**

 

Chocolate's no wolf, but the six year old black lab from the Glendale Humane Society comes built-in with the ability to sit, shake, and shit outside. Cathy wanted a puppy, but dear Uncle Wayne's visits are too infrequent to rely on his training, and as much as David gushes about his pair of huskies Kaz has done his reading.

He brings her home first thing in the morning. The L.A. Times just hit the doorstep, but it landed on top of a larger brown package.

"Chocolate, no," Kaz says instinctively, and Chocolate backs away.

It's addressed to Cathy, but there's no return address.

He opens it right there on the front porch, glancing up to peer through the saw palmettos as if he could spot the sender lurking across the street. Inside is the latest in home entertainment: a PlayStation still in the box. There's a few odd games he isn't interested in, something about a vampire castle and a woman with triangles for a chest, and that's about it. No letter, not a single personal effect. Even the address label is printed.

Kaz hides it all in the garage before bringing in the real birthday surprise. He has just enough time to put on some coffee before Cathy comes padding down the hall only to start weeping with joy when she sees Chocolate. Nadine wakes up, too, bringing out the food and bowl they've been stashing in the master closet, and Cathy's perfect day is off to a perfect start.

The party itself, scheduled for late in the afternoon, falls a bit short. There could be a bigger crowd. Cathy swore she gave every kid in class an invitation, but only Kiera, Jacob, Alexis, Lupe, and Carlos show up. Kiera's kind of freaky, but she's Cathy's best friend. Jacob's crush is obvious, Alexis always shows Cathy up in every sport, and Lupe and Carlos are the weird twins who live down the street, but Kaz can't judge. When he was ten years old his best friend was Pooyan the pig.

As for the adult guests, David couldn't make it. But he did send a lovely card with photos of his dogs and the mountains and stuff. Uncle Wayne appeared out of thin air, and at least a few members of the extended Reyes-Walker clan bothered to show up.

Cathy probably threw half the invitations away anyways. It's fine enough, even if Kaz did have to fold up half the card tables. Right now Uncle Wayne and Germaine are on the grill turning hot dogs, Selena and Nadine are spinning the kids in front of the pinata, and Cathy's having a good time.

If only his mother-in-law wasn't smoking in front of the kids. Across from her at the picnic table, Kaz cracks open a soda and turns up the boombox. That new music the kids bop around to wasn't his style at first, and as a suburban father he ought to be morally outraged by lyrics about guns and violence, but it's grown on him. At least Madelín isn't complaining about that - _yet_.

On the business side of things, Madelín has been perfectly happy as the McDonnell's empire expands. On the personal side, she still doesn't have anything to complain about as long as the money is rolling in and even Germaine is now a regional manager.

Kaz follows her pointed glare to see Nadine fussing over the condiment table. Everything is ready for the hot dogs: ketchup, curtido, mayonnaise, mustard, pickle relish. Two varieties of soda, cups, plates - the buns. She forgot the hot dog buns.

Nadine forgets things sometimes. Happens to everybody. Selena laughs while she wrings her hands, and Ocelot looks up from the hot dogs.

She just had them, in her hand, she could swear it. Selena offers to run to the store, but Ocelot disappears inside the house and comes out with the sack of  buns. Somehow they ended up in the freezer, but if Germaine toasts them on the grill for a minute they'll be ready just in time. Just a slip of the mind. No big deal.

Madelín squints at the comforting hand Ocelot lays on Nadine's shoulder. "Your old war buddy, eh? Nadine talks a lot about him."

"I've know Wayne for over twenty years," Kaz says. "Don't have much else in the way of family."

"Hmm. Handsome man."

"What, you want me to give him your number?"

Madelín sucks on her cigarette contemplatively and shakes her head. Before they can go any further down that road, Germaine announces the hot dogs are ready, and Kaz safely escapes to coordinate the handing out of paper plates and make sure Lupe doesn't explode the ketchup bottle.

After hot dogs it's time for cake. Kaz is justifiably proud of it: two tiers of plain vanilla, bisected and stacked with chocolate pudding and raspberry jam. Earlier today on a whim of inspiration he colored the buttercream purple and yellow to rep the Los Angeles Lakers. To Kaz's chagrin Cathy never went for baseball, but he's been learning. Eddie Jones got all the three-pointers last night, while Shaq held steady on the rebounds or something like that.

The sun is well on its way down when Kaz brings out the cake with all ten candles blazing. Cathy blushes and hides her face when everyone sings and starts clapping, and at least Kaz got this part of the party down pat.

"All right, kiddo. You're double digits now, you can serve your own cake," Kaz announces and hands her the knife like he's presenting her with some holy sword.

"This isn't a real knife," Cathy says.

"You don't cut cake with a meat cleaver."

"You don't cut cake with a butterknife either."

Bratty, but it's her birthday. Kaz claps both hands on her shoulders. "Tell you what. When you're a teenager, you get to use the bone saw."

Cathy rolls her eyes and cuts crooked lines through the cake. Maybe a bread knife would have been better, but it gets the job done. Uncle Wayne gets the biggest slice: a corner piece with extra buttercream. Kaz takes his own modest slice and sits beside him to watch him try to eat it. Sometimes Uncle Wayne gets a bit distant at these family gatherings, but at least he doesn't try to scrape off the buttercream or anything.  

Once everyone's had enough, and the paper plates are all cleared, it's finally time to break into the table piled with presents. The best gift, of course, is already lying down panting in the backyard lawn with a hot dog bun someone must’ve slipped her, but there might be something good still here. The PlayStation is revealed to awe, only to get one-upped by Uncle Germaine going all out with the real latest console, the Nintendo 64. Selena came through with the games: all about big green dinosaurs and monkeys jumping around or something.

Besides that, there’s Tamagotchis and Tommy Hilfiger and a new pair of Jordan's that make Kaz frown at Nadine because Cathy goes through three pairs of shoes a year. The kids give her everything from velvet Lisa Frank posters to Godzilla figurines to some elaborate book of stapled-together printer paper Kiera made that is entirely private and can’t be shown off to anybody.

The final present is tied with a red silk ribbon. Cathy’s name is written in loving and painstaking calligraphy, and she turns shining eyes up to Uncle Wayne.

Kaz hovers behind Cathy as she unveils the box. It’s beautiful, customized with her initials inlaid in the mahogany. There’s a golden key that fits the golden lock and she opens it to reveal -

Shit, it's the _engraved_ one.

Cathy lifts the Colt up with both hands, letting the barrel catches the red gleam of sunset. Parasites can read all five of her names painstakingly curled around the vines, but there’s no time to admire it when everyone and the dog are shouting at once.

“ _Puchica!_ ”

“Damn, that’s a piece!”

“Wait, is that real?”

“ _Damelo ahorita -_ ”

“It’s fine.” Kaz snatches it from Madelín’s hand. “And it’s unloaded. Relax.” He double-checks - yes, it is at least unloaded.

“That right there is a real one-of-a-kind piece,” Ocelot says smoothly. “The Colt Single Action Army is the greatest weapon -”

“A gun,” Madelín snaps. “You gave _mi nieta_ a gun.”

Caught off guard, Ocelot tries to recover. “Ten years is a milestone. I thought it was high time -”

“Do you want her to end up dead? Or just in prison?”

There’s a lecture on the tip of Ocelot's tongue, something about a man picking up a stick or a story about a child he once knew. If he starts speaking Russian it’s all over, but Selena interrupts with practiced ease of someone who's had to defuse more than a few family gatherings. “C’mon, Moms,” she says. "Check it out, it’s like an antique or something.”

"Cathy could put that in her college fund!" Germaine doesn't take it from Kaz, but he does get awfully close. "Look, he even went all out and put her name on it. That's a work of art, man."

Nadine shoots Uncle Wayne an encouraging smile. “This is incredible, Wayne. Thank you so much.”

Uncle Wayne doesn’t answer. Madelín huffs. “She’s ten years old, she’s a baby! What does she need a gun for?"

Selena dithers. "I mean, it's not like -"

"Everywhere I see, in the news, in the streets, guns, guns, guns. Everybody’s dying and shooting each other and you come here and try to give my granddaughter a gun?"

“It's a family heirloom." Kaz sets the Colt back in the case and locks it. "Wayne's had this for... a very long time. And he doesn't have kids of his own, so -”

"I don't give a damn. Guns bring _nothing_ but blood into this world. And you -" she glares around the table at her children - "should know that."

That shuts everyone up. At least, except for Lupe, who is still rambling about his favorite cowboy movies until Kiera pokes him with her plastic fork.

The big ugly elephant in the backyard is that Nadine's long-lost father was shot by a police officer for the crime of reaching for his wallet. Fortunately for Kaz, this plays into why she wanted to make sure Cathy had a dad. Unfortunately for Ocelot, Madelín's got a bit of a _thing_ about guns, especially mysterious white men with guns, shared by pretty much the entire Reyes-Walker clan. So this whole scene might be a little _politically charged._ Even Germaine and Selena are shooting nervous glances at each other.

For one thing Kaz isn't white. For another thing, even if he isn't a legit citizen he's still got the second amendment. For yet another thing, this is all a bit... beyond Ocelot's understanding. Or rather, it's something he understands all too well and is in the business of exploiting.

Kaz wishes he could just touch Ocelot. Instead he presses his bionic to his forehead in a clear gesture of irritation. It’s always handy in an argument, a quick reminder that Kaz has seen a fair bit of blood himself. "Madelín. I understand why you might have misgivings about this, but she’s my daughter.”

“And she’s my _nieta._ ”

If Kaz goes any further out here he’ll ostracize not only his remaining supporters among the Reyes-Walker clan, but the entire damn neighborhood. “Can we speak privately?”

The kitchen is still littered with the detritus of cake decorating. Madelín, ever the nagging mother-in-law and detail-obsessed manager, sniffs derisively at the mess. If the mess truly bothered her she could’ve come early to help set up the party.

“Let me be perfectly clear,” Kaz tells her. “Just because you birthed my wife doesn’t give you the right to come into my house and -”

The glass door to the yard slides like it wishes it could slam. Nadine storms in, effectively pushing Kaz to the side to confront her mother herself.

“Mom, you need to cool it. I get that you don’t like Wayne, but you don’t even know who the hell he is.”

Madelín goes from offensive to sneering. “Oh, you think I need to get to know him better, huh? Maybe if I let him in my bed I'd trust him to play guns with my granddaughter?”

“Moms, what the hell -"

"I see the way he looks at your husband. I see the way you all look at each other. You think I'm blind, mi'ija? I said, before, oh, well, it's none of my business. But this is too far."

Nadine nods, curt. “You were right. It is none of your business.”

"It is when it concerns the safety of _mi nieta_.”

“What do you mean, safety? You think he’s not safe?”

“I know what a killer looks like.” Madelín jabs a finger over her shoulder, towards the backyard door. “This Wayne is no war hero. If he ever was in the army they kicked him out for being too crazy.” She leans forward to grab Nadine by the shoulder, pulling her in.  “Listen to me. He’s dangerous. I don’t know what your husband tells you, but I never raised you to be an idiot. You might fall for his big money and little lies -”

“ _Cállese!_ ”

In his career, Kaz has known a few shrimps with a can of whoopass on reserve, but he never imagined Nadine exploding likethat. She seems suprised by it herself, but she tucks a chunk of hair behind her ear and rolls on.

“There are questions we don’t ask in this house,” she says, low and simmering. “I’m well aware of Wayne’s issues. I tried to take him to the VA myself a few times, sure. But this is the business of himself and the people who care about him.”

“Nadine, he’s a -”

“Wayne was a major in special forces when he was nineteen years old. That's a world you and I can't even begin to imagine. So what if his mind is slipping? Did you forget the kind of people I used to work with? I know, Mom! And I don’t care! He loves Cathy, he loves her father... what else am I supposed to do?”

Madelín's mouth curls down, aghast. “You defend him like family.”

“Because he is!”

 _“_ Then what am I? _M'ija_ -”

“Don’t you _m’ija_ me. Just because it took me too long to cut the apron strings -”

“All those years I supported you! First you weren’t good enough to be a  designer, then you weren’t good enough to be a doctor, and now that you’re failing as a mother you -”

“Now _I’m_ failing as a mother?"

This clearly isn't Kaz's fight. He stops trying to clean up the kitchen and slips outside. In the backyard Germaine is doing his best to lighten the mood while Selena frowns at her nails. Lupe and Carlos have already gone back next door, and Kiera and Cathy are sitting quietly in the grass with Chocolate.

Uncle Wayne is still fussing over his half-eaten slice of birthday cake.

"Think we're almost out of soda. You wanna make a run with me?" He jerks his head at Germaine. "You can hold down the fort for a minute, right?"

“You do what you gotta do,” Germaine says, and to his credit doesn’t even glance back at the house. “Me and Selena, we been hearing this fight.”

“For too damn long," Selena mutters.

They’re playing nice, but the siblings seem glad to be rid of them both. Kaz smiles weakly, takes Ocelot by the arm, and asks Cathy if he can borrow Chocolate for a quick walk.

In the fading dusk Ocelot is nothing but sharp-angled shadows. He always likes walking through the suburbs, down streets lined wisteria and cypress and palms. During the daylight there’s always kids out,  whipping past the crawling family sedans on their skateboards, but it’s quiet now. Likewise, Ocelot is silent.

Kaz is reluctant to leave him alone outside the convenience store, but he’s got the dog with him.

After, he doesn’t lead him straight home, but further. Across the street and catty-corner to a park. Barely a triangle of grass with a little playground and benches. Kaz chooses one in the shadows of an elm, away from the streetlights, and pats the seat beside him.

Ocelot sits down and melts. Head landing on Kaz’s shoulder, the leash slipping from his hands.  Chocolate sniffs him delicately, then jumps up on his lap. Ocelot doesn’t seem to notice.

They wait. Until the party is long past needing sodas, until the yard must be empty, until Ocelot sighs and starts petting the dog.

“Do you want me to say the line?” Kaz asks him.

Ocelot nod is almost imperceptible in the dark.

“Are you sure about that? I mean, the last I heard of Sheriff Wildcat he was hanging out with the My Little Ponies.”

“He hasn't told that one in a long time,” Ocelot says, faintly. “Sheriff Wildcat never made it out of the Seapony Kingdom.”

“Kids tend to outgrow those kind of stories.” Kaz studies his profile. “Who is Wayne Katz, anyways?”

“You know who he is.”

“No, I really don’t. I think whoever wrote his character was kind of hasty. Couldn’t have been you who did that, right?” Kaz leans closer, until his lips are almost touching Ocelot’s ear. "Was it Adam? Or Adamska?"

No response, not even a flinch.

“Who gave Cathy the Colt?”

“He wanted her to have it,” comes the firm reply. “Would you deny him that?”

“A ten year old doesn’t need a gun.”

“He did.”

 _He_ is the storyteller. Who chose a name for himself. Who saw a picture of pretty kitties once, in a book somewhere, and liked them for no other reason than that he did.

Kaz sighs and brings an arm up around Ocelot. Tucks his head under his chin and notices how even now, his breathing is perfectly controlled.

“I know it’s a sacrifice every time you come down here,” he tells him. “But if you’re still hypnotizing yourself -”

“My method's work.”

“If you were that good at playing roles, this wouldn't be necessary. What, you've got to hypnotize yourself into liking pussy every time you take a vacation? Your method's broken, Ocelot. Unsustainable. This is the last thing I ever wanted for you.”

Ocelot lifts his head from Kaz's shoulder.

Even in the dark he can sense the constant energy of Ocelot changing. There's stages of Ocelot. Like a clean and polished revolver with a single bullet, haha, can either be a trusted weapon, a neutral object, or a immediate danger depending on where it is. And right now there’s a barrel pointing directly at Kaz’s head when Ocelot asks, "What you _wanted_ for me?” 

“Well -”

“Your irrelevant wants have nothing to do with my plans, Miller, but maybe you're right. Maybe I've failed to pay proper attention to them. Go ahead. Tell me exactly what sort of plans you've made for me."

Of fucking course he'd take it as an insult. Truth is, if Kaz could he’d take Ocelot somewhere far away from everybody, even himself, if it came to that, just to let him drop the mask for a moment and exist. It's a stupid fantasy. Kaz has seen behind that mask, and these days he's pretty sure if he took a peek there'd be absolutely nothing beneath. Maybe nothing but the same oil-slick that runs in his own veins.

If anything he'd like to prick his thumb or gouge out his eye and slip it in Ocelot's mouth. Slip them both some arsenic, too, and wake up as two big dumb plant monsters.

If anything he'd like to - 

“Well, for one, I sure as hell never wanted you at my wedding.”

Ocelot nods abruptly. Gently pushes off the dog and stands up. Brushes the seat of his pants before straightening with a curt nod. “Kaz, I don’t think I’ll be coming around much anymore.”

"Okay."

“I’ll be in touch, of course. Snake may be in the winds now, but he hasn’t forgotten what you told him." He nods, again, working out a whole new story in his head. "I’ll take care of everything, Miller. You just watch yourself.”

With a spin on his heel he's gone. Just like that.

Back at the house the party is long over. The backyard is clean, the dishwasher is running, and the garbage's been taken out. Chocolate paws at Cathy's closed bedroom door, whining, while Kaz looks for his wife. Still in the backyard, barefoot in the grass and lost again.

The Colt is still on the kitchen counter. Kaz puts it in the safe, tucked in the back of his bedroom closet, before bringing Nadine inside.

She freezes in the kitchen. Turns to him with a vague look and asks, “Did everybody leave already?”

“Yeah. It’s late.”

“It was a good party, right? We did good.”

“Yeah. Cathy had a great time.”

She falls asleep about as soon as she hits the sheets, while Kaz lies awake. His back is aching, the phantom pain is acting up again, but Proposition 215 was approved last year and the bowl he packs in his kiseru is 100% legal and doctor-approved. 

It really does help.

 

 

 

 

_“It’s him, isn’t it.” David sets down Mila’s freshly-wrapped paw and moves to the next dog down the line._

_On the other side of the line, Kaz carefully checks Marta’s paws. These dogs are nothing like Chocolate, who would probably just lie down and die if she ever saw snow. “I wouldn’t doubt it.”_

_“But I - I killed him, I saw him die. I know what happened down there."_

_“Hey. We don’t know for sure, yet. The entire complex in South Africa was blitzed.” Yuka, Marta's running partner, licks Kaz’s nose._

_“Can’t help a bad feeling.” At the end of the line, David stands up. Brushes his gloved hands off on his snow pants. “Master, why'd you come to Alaska?"_

_"What, an old man can't take a vacation?"_

_"What about your family? Cathy's not back at school yet, is she?"_

_"Eh." Kaz gives Marta a brief ruffle behind the ears. "They can't handle the cold."_

 

**NOVEMBER, 1999**

 

Two weeks before Cathy's thirteenth birthday, a plain brown envelope shows up in the mailbox from apparently no one. The letter inside is reassuring and promising, and Kaz slides it somewhere along with last year's tax records and Cathy's birth certificate and all the other records of his suburban life.

It's a little disrespectful, and frankly rude considering what Kaz once thought would be his final conversation with the one known as Sigint, but it's true that Kaz never thanked him for the Playstation. Perhaps he should have written a letter and e-mailed it into the void of hyperspace or whatever.

Shortly after receiving this letter, a pigeon flies into his backyard. Could be any other flying rat, but for the miniscule parcel around its leg. The message concealed in the microdot is even more reassuring. Another young woman, much more interesting than Cathy, has caught Big Boss's eye. As it turns out Kaz was right to suspect that nasty goop that dripped all over his base.

Truth is Kaz wasn't worried at all, but he appreciates the gesture. Cathy does not have the makings of a soldier or a businessman.

No, Kaz isn't worried about Big Boss crawling through a window with a knife between his teeth to kidnap his daughter. He's worried that she doesn't want a birthday party. He's worried that she likes to sit in the dark and play videogames and that all the fun hoppy music she used to like has been replaced with strange dark-sounding stuff and guitars played badly. Nadine says it's just puberty, but on the birthday she wants to ignore Kaz takes her out anyways.

She slides in the passenger seat too sullen to be a birthday girl. Kaz drums his hands on the wheel.

"So... you wanna go to the mall? Get some, ah, some new CDs?"

She sniffs, loudly, and picks at something under her nail. "I dunno."

"How about ice cream?"

"I dunno."

"Come on, kiddo. Give me something to work with."

She hesitates, drawing out a very long _ummm_ for a minute before asking, "do you remember when I was ten?"

"Yep."

"And Uncle Wayne - um - I know Uncle Wayne doesn't come around anymore but I was just - I was wondering - " She bites her lips and stares back down at her nails before rushing out, "doyoustillhavethatgun."

"I sure do."

"Oh my gosh." She flushes. "Can we like, go to a gun range?"

Kaz slams the wheel and says, "God, yes."

First they have to sneak back into the house.

It's close enough to winter that the brown-furred hills are finally green. Kaz used to have a habit of going out off Lopez Canyon Road until he realized he had nothing to prove as a burger magnate and father, but he's still a member at the range. It's a beautiful crisp day and the Colt is a perfect first weapon. Cathy drops at least three bullets every time she reloads, and she never quite gets a headshot, but it really does stir something deep in Kaz's heart, stokes that flame that's been building ever since he first held her in his arms, to teach his daughter how to fire a weapon.

It's a perfect day.

Or at least an hour or two until Cathy hands him back the revolver, takes off her ear protection, and asks him why Uncle Wayne doesn't come around anymore.

"Are you scared of him?"

Damn, but teenagers can be blunt. "Of course I'm not. What would I be scared of?"

She looks like she changes her mind about whatever she's going to say. "I dunno. Everyone's scared these days. Y2K and all that cra- all that stuff."

"You don't have anything to be scared of, Cathy."

"I don't know!" She takes off her eye protection, too, and flings them to the dusty earth. "Everything's changing. And I don't know - I don't know what's going on. I just want to be ready. For like, whatever. Whatever happens. You know what I mean?" Her big brown eyes are red, scrunched up. "Mom doesn't even talk about Uncle Wayne anymore. She's like, gone, all the f- all the - and Grandma says - and now everyone's always going on about how the world is gonna end and I don't even know what's happening!"

"Cathy, honey -"

"I saw you kissing Uncle Wayne when I was like, six. And I didn't even know what was going. But you, and him, and Mom, you guys - you guys -"

And Cathy swipes her hands over her eyes really fast. Like she's trying not to cry in front of her own father.

Kaz doesn't know what to do.

"He used to tell me stories," she says, now, shaky. "All these weird stories. And then he'd start like, talking different languages and stuff. When he gave me that - that stupid gun, and you and Mom and Grandma were all fighting, he started telling me. All these crazy things. About how the world was changing and that one day I'd need a gun, a freaking gun in my hand, and like, the mercy of death, and whatever, and like... you know?"

She's weeping, now, but when Kaz pulls her into his arms she doesn't resist. Her face soaks the faded McDonnell's logo printed on his T-shirt. It's a bit high on his chest, but she's tall enough to reach it now.

On the way home they stop at Target. Cathy, awfully pale under the harsh white lighting, dries her eyes and sniffs. In the discount school supplies section Kaz picks out a diary with a picture of a rainbow unicorn on the front. The same image is on a velvet poster she colored in herself when she was eleven years old. Sheriff Wildcat might have ridden on the samn damn unicorn.

"I used to keep a diary," Kaz tells her. "Shoulda kept it up."

"I don't even like Lisa Frank anymore."

But didn't she, once?

So Kaz puts his hand around her shoulder in the aisle and tells her, "Look. I know you're scared. And you're right. Things are changing, and they're gonna keep changing. I wish I could tell you what the future holds, but the truth is? I don't know."

"Real comforting, Dad."

"All I can tell you is that you're gonna be just fine. I promise."

"You can't just say that if you don’t believe it.”

“I do.” He taps the diary in her hand. “And I can also tell you things might seem really confusing, for a long time. If you think you’re scared now, you got a lot more coming. When you’ve got nowhere to turn and no one to talk to, use this. Write it down. Sort yourself out before it’s too late.”

The drive home is silent. Nadine ordered a birthday cake from Costco she's nervous to present, but Cathy's surprise and gratitude is sincere. They have their own little makeshift birthday party while Kaz retreats to the office-cum-computer room to drink and read some of those letters again.

It all happens pretty quick. David has been waiting to put an end to his nightmares, and the protocol has already been established. Couldn't be happening at a better time, either, what with all this Y2K nonsense going on. McDonnell's is counting on Activo to handle all of that.

All there's really left for Kaz to do is take Roy Campbell's call. The day before Christmas Eve, Kaz locks the door to the computer room and cover his desk with maps of whatever the hell Big Boss has been building.

Zanzibar Land. An African name in the middle of Russia. Couldn't be more obvious. Recent events in the Middle East (and the subsequent effect on oil prices) have kept the eyes of the media off. The discovery of OILIX itself is still a secret, but a magical power source like that won't be hidden for long.

Speaking of OILIX, Kaz will have to talk to SIGINT about that. No, he probably can't just start pumping his own blood into his car, there's got to be a whole process of molecular rearrangement and refinement to get it right, but the thought of a magical power source ending the global reliance on oil sounds a bit like too much. Then again, SIGINT is on the cusp of controlling every computer in the world. Sure, people will keep drilling the last of the oil reserves even with this expensive alternative solution, but the best part is that no one actually knows that's it's still all under a monopoly anyways.

It's exactly the route Kaz would take if he wanted total world domination, but the current state of the war economy does revolve around oil. They're not going for world peace, no matter how SIGINT hypes himself up every morning.

The question is how far can he pry into the Patriot's secrets before they rip his eyes out and put him into cold storage forever.

Step one, of course, is securing OILIX. And that means guiding David through Zanzibar Land. So Kaz turns on his codec, squints between his screens and his maps, and watches. David's about ten hours ahead of him, but in the dark of this room it could be midnight in Los Angeles.

Then he realizes his hips are aching and he'd better load up some medicinal herbs in his kiseru. Then he realizes he's actually going to park his ass in the computer room for however long this takes and goes out to get some water. In the living room Nadine and Cathy making some sort of Christmas cookies.

"Dad!" Cathy perks up. "Do you want to make a cookie? I got like, some Halloween shapes in here too."

Nadine glances up. "I thought you had to work."

"I am." He snatches a cookie still undecorated. "I'm just gonna - gonna go be in there. For a while."

"All right." She skips over the Christmas-tree shaped cookie to smear green on a bat. "You'd better get back to it, then."

Kaz locks the door behind him.

He could just not do this. Skip out on this call.

Five years ago -

When the phantom -

Nevermind that. He's got to see Big Boss die. He's got to make damn sure. If he can't be the killing hand, he'll be the wrist, or maybe more like an elbow or something. Kaz sits down in the computer chair hard.

"You there, Master?"

"I'm here."

"This place is giving me the creeps."

Kaz silently agrees.

All this time he thought Ocelot was taking care of Snake. But not even Ocelot could compare to the madness at work here.

Back in the day, when Snake would wake up with the voice of the AI in his head, Kaz got used to waking up smothered in heat. Sometimes a cock in his ass or a fist in his face, but most of the time Snake just needed something to hold on to.

That was when he'd first begun to pity Snake.

Pity. That's it. That's the sickness boiling in his gut when he surveys the map. An entire desert of imported sand like he's nostalgic for the Kalahari, a swamp he's lost innumerable trucks to - Kaz cringes at the thought of salvage costs -, long spiraling halls. Somewhere, perhaps at the top of one of those towers, is a room where Big Boss sleeps alone.

And the kids, Christ. Hidden in the walls, crawling around the drains. Five years ago David killed two boys, barely fifteen, with names they'd chosen for themselves. These children come shyly up to David and tell him about their nightmares, and David tells them that he has nightmares too.

But it's all going to end now, right?

It's after David starts crying over his second-favorite ice skater when Kaz decides to hell with this. He doesn't need to sit here watching this shit, he can take his codec on the go.

The house is dark and silent. Only Chocolate thumps her tail from her watchful spot outside Cathy's shut bedroom door.

"You wanna go for a ride, boy?"

Of course he does.

There's still a mess of cookies and frosting sitting out. Why is the kitchen always a mess? He grabs another two cookies, throws Chocolate the leg of a gingerbread boy, and grabs a bottle of Martin Miller's from the liquor cabinet. With that and a few things he picks up from the garage he's ready to go.

Chocolate gets to ride shotgun to the L.A. River. There's been talk of putting up a fence around it, but Kaz can still get there from the road. No one else is out fishing, and Kaz doesn't really give a damn if he catches something, but it's something to do.

The moon sure is big tonight.

By the time morning dawns in a cloudless gradient of red, it's done.

Kaz doesn't cry. Kaz doesn't smash his kiseru, or his radio, or do anything but pick himself up off the floor and drag himself into the car. He turns on the radio, fiddles around, and finds that one song he likes. Some of that new hip-hoppy stuff all the kids like, that Kaz prefers more these days to any of the old stuff.

[Only time will tell who dies, right?](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0GVbeTdDRs4)

It's... a good feeling, strangely. A little painful, but that's just how it feels to rip off a scab, and an entire ancient crust just slipped off his skin. He wasn't expecting that, but back at the house Kaz sees exactly what he expected: Nadine and Cathy, bundled up with their bags packed, standing in the foyer waiting.

"We're going to Mom's for Christmas," Nadine says. She's examining her nails, which she's kept unpainted and trimmed as long as Kaz has known her. Selena's the one who goes for that. But her boring plain nails are a hundred times more interesting than looking at Kaz.

"Have fun."

She sighs, heavily. Graces him with a flat look. "We won't be coming back, Ben. Not while you're still here."

Wasn't it the same for Kaz, when the scales slid from his eyes?

There's nothing he could tell her that she doesn't already know. The radiation he's been intentionally exposing himself to for years. The parasites in his eyes, in his blood. If Nadine does get cancer, at least she'll be able to afford the treatment. There's nothing Kaz needs from his little burger franchise anymore.

When Cathy tries to speak Nadine grabs her by the arm and says, "Don't even bother."

"But -"

"Cathy. Go to Grandma's. Tell her she should've stuck with the pupusas. I'll be out of here by the new year."

Everyone looks down at the dog. Chocolate stares balefully back at everyone in turn. Big, dumb, beautiful Chocolate, the least interesting dog in the word.

"He's mine," he says. "I paid his fees. I picked him out. I'm the one who buys his food. You're not taking the dog."

"Wait -"

"Told you," Nadine tells Cathy, and slams the door behind them.

From here Kaz can't see into the kitchen, but Ocelot isn't even trying to be silent. Kaz follows the sound of spurs to find him examining a Christmas cookie. He could wonder how long Ocelot has been here, if he's been lurking in the neighbor's trees with a scope for the past two days, if he's been living in the fucking attic for the past month. The only way to predict Ocelot's movements is to just expect him at anytime. Kaz stops at the entrance, leaving the breakfast bar between them.

If Uncle Wayne was here before he's long gone now. This is the Ocelot he met at the Griffith Observatory that night when the city burned, and despite the clean clothes he looks like he's been through a riot. There's definitely some track marks hiding under his tidy blue suit, and though it's only been three years he looks another ten years older. Kaz should ask him what the hell he's doing here, but the first thing he blurts out is: "are you okay?"

The question lands, flops, and slides right off. "I heard you received an interesting job offer, Miller," the stranger announces. "Hope you aren't thinking of taking it."

The black powder Colt in his left hand slowly starts spinning.

"Ah, of course. You're here to kill me."

"I warned you, Miller, years ago. If you ever go crawling back to Cipher -" The revolver misses its arc when Chocolate sniffs his boots, but Ocelot shakes it off and rebounds.  "Your road ends here."

Kaz sighs. Drops the fishing rod and the bait on the counter and pulls that bottle of gin he's been nursing all night out from under his coat. What he really needs is coffee, but maybe the gin will tempt Ocelot. "I've been back in their good book since I took that FOXHOUND job. Why didn't you just kill me then?"

Chocolate does, in fact, remember Ocelot from three years ago, and is ecstatic to see him again. Ocelot backs away from her raised paw and says, "I was willing to let you seek closure. Your influence on the boy was instrumental in bringing down Big Boss."

"Guess you might as well shoot me, then. My wife just took the kid, I've been rotting in suburbia for thirteen years, and this is about all I have to live for. Go ahead. Blow my brains out."

"Believe me, Miller. I'm doing you a mercy here."

The gin doesn’t get a second glance, but Chocolate barks. Puts a paw up, begging for attention, before giving up and jumping up on Ocelot. Sixty pounds of chubby Labrador isn't enough to throw Ocelot off his feet, but the gun aimed at Kaz does waver.

Rather than call her off, Kaz leans on the breakfast bar with great interest. "So what happens after that, huh? Did you read the letter? Do you truly believe SIGINT trusts you, of all the people, to run his war economy?" Kaz snorts. "Donald Anderson hates your guts, Ocelot. He didn't trust you in the seventies, but he knew you'd do anything for Big Boss's big dick. Now he's gone, who knows what you're gonna do next? You're a loose cannon, Ocelot. Someone's got to keep an extra eye on you."

"What makes you the obvious choice for the job? You're not my only friend, Miller. I have many friends, all over the world, that you'll never meet."

"We worked together for a decade. We built that hydra in the first place. It's not a reach to suspect we  might have a bit of a _special relationship_. Even if I refused, it'd only be a matter of time until he dragged me in for interrogation and, I don’t know, carved my eyes out of my skull."

"Why would anyone want you? You're useless, Miller. Broken. Rotting in your own suburban hell - your wife has already been talking to divorce lawyers."

"Exactly. I'm a free bird now. Free to go back to reality."

"You're out of your mind if you think you're going to spy on me."

"Doesn't that work out just fine for you? On the one hand, I'll tell him whatever you want me to tell him. And on the other hand, I can tell him the truth - that you've been running yourself ragged and you're hurtling closer and closer to a breakdown."

"That's not -"

"Why do I wear these glasses, Ocelot?"

"I -" Ocelot blinks. Wavers. "I don't concern myself with your ridiculous fashion choices, Miller - though the word _fashion_ is a bit of a stretch. You've worn those as long as I've known you. And - and in your later years, you've developed cataracts. And you - you -" he's really, really struggling to keep his breathing under control. "You can't let anyone know that, Miller."

"I'll be fine." Kaz rounds the breakfast bar, hands raised. "It's gonna be fine, Ocelot. Just - relax. Let someone else do the backstabbing for once."

Ocelot sighs and puts his gun back in the holster. Blinks at the hands Kaz is holding up: the bionic, the Rolex. Chocolate whines and gets a half-hearted ear scratch for her efforts. As Kaz creeps around the breakfast bar he just leans on the counter and rubs the dark trenches under his eyes. He looks up expectantly when Kaz finally makes it all the way around, but Kaz’s only plan here is to make coffee and give Chocolate breakfast.

Kibble clinks in the bowl while the percolator drips. The nutty yet distinctly _unburnt_ smell is as familiar and regular as, well, waking up every morning. Staying up late every night. The cornerstone of every castle they've built together. Kaz pours them both a mug of black, and lets Ocelot decide whether he wants cream or sugar.

Today Ocelot wants a heaping tablespoon of sugar. He probably could use the glucose right now; maintaining that delicate balance of uppers and downers is something Kaz is all too familiar with. It's quite hot still, but he takes a long sip and says, “don’t do this, Kaz."

"I'm not going to sit with my thumb up my ass while you run around changing the world. Just let me help you with this."

“I don't need your help."

"So? I'm doing this because _I want to._ What, did you think I'd be happy with this? Sitting in the dark reading newspapers I can't trust, wondering every day what the hell is going to happen to my daughter? To me? We were partners once, Ocelot. I would've - if it wasn't for Cathy, I could have gone all the way with you. You think I can't handle the truth or something?"

"You did run away."

That's true. And if Kaz can't handle that truth, then he surely can't hope to handle anything else. "Yeah, I ran. And I fucked up and got locked down into something. But hey, it didn't even take eighteen years for me to screw the pooch on that."

Ocelot stares at Chocolate, pale grey eyes almost sad. "This isn't your _story_ , Kaz."

"Actually, according to Joseph Campbell, I’m the hero of whatever story I wanna be."

“Someone else said something like that, you know. They were a communist and a feminist. You haven’t read her work. Perhaps you should -”

“God, can we just cut the crap.” Kaz has an idea of who Mary McCarthy was, but the truth is he mainly delved into feminist philosophy during college to get close to girls, and that was also decades ago. "I’m just saying it’s  time I picked up the pen for myself." He takes a bony, twitching hand in his bionic and swings it a bit. “C'mon. Senator John Sears of Utica, New York? Saw him on C-Span. My only question is if it's a clone or another phantom."

"You have _no idea_ -"

"Let me guess: Clinton versus Sears, 2000."

"Your father is a very bad man," Ocelot tells Chocolate. "That's right, girl. Just a vile, tenacious, unkillable cockroach. I know, I've been trying since 1974."

“... Just don’t kill me for worrying about you, okay?”

"You're the only one who does," Ocelot mutters, but he goes back to the coffee. "I suppose I can't stop you, can I?"

"Oh, you absolutely can.”

It's good to hear to Ocelot laugh with his real voice, but he cuts it short. "That reminds me. There's another reason I came here. You need this."

It's a floppy disk. Unmarked. Kaz turns it over, carefully.

"The solution to the Y2K problem was easier than anyone thought," Ocelot says. "In six days, every computer in the world will receive a simple update. The work's already been done. No overtime necessary. That," he says, tapping the disk, "will keep you from getting the brunt of it."

"So I just, what? Pop it in? What about the iDroid?"

"This?" Ocelot pulls out his own iDroid from his belt. "Long been obsolete."

Kaz turns over the grey floppy. "Well... thanks. I'm glad you uh. Remembered."

Ocelot slides slowly up to Kaz. Raises a gloved hand and carefully, carefully, cups Kaz's cheek. "Thank you for reminding me."

When Kaz brings his arms up around,  Chocolate nudges between their legs. Kaz smiles, knocks their foreheads together. "So, did you have any holiday plans? Cause I'm about ready to sleep for a week."

Ocelot nods. Moves his hand from Kaz's cheek to circle his flesh wrist, and leads him to bed. Chocolate takes up the space between, and they sleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you don't remember Y2K, please, for the love of god, you might wanna.... read about that. a lot of programmers worked hard and absolutely did not just, what, insert a universal floppy disk? no, the floppy is just something ocelot specifically made for kaz. 
> 
> however, Big Boss dies on christmas in 1999, so yeah, it is kind of the perfect Point for the Patriots AI/whatever the hell to swoop in and magically control all computers. i am so, so sorry that this fic is indeed the absolute most Obnoxious Kaz Retcon: Now We're Changing History (please help i don't know if 9/11 is canon in the mgs universe) and all the vidya tech is really just handy plot devices/set dressing for a soap opera. and now you also know that there are some really dumb parts of MGS4 that i intend on playing completely straight! this is video games, baby!
> 
> next chapter, coming at you in another decade: the hot new yaoi, DONUHIRA - i'm kidding. sigint reads pretty straight to me.


	11. ALWAYS ON TIME

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back to actual Metal Gear. With some, ah, wild twists and obnoxious parasite retcons? Finally closing some major circles here.

_“Don’t kid yourself," Donny snorts. "See, that's what I like about you, Kaz. You never gave a damn about the philosophy.”_

_“The philosophy?”_

_“Fuck philosophy. Nothing but a bunch of dead people jacking themselves off. You know the Boss’s daddy was one of the original Philosophers? Born with a silver spoon in her mouth and all the ponies a girl could want. Typical white people crap. You wear that mask, you know what I mean. They pick and choose the struggle; you and me? We were born into it.”_

_“Always got something to prove, huh. No, I get you.”_

_“The only people who think borders are invisible are the same people who say color is invisible.” Donny's laugh is brassy, harsh. “I guess I gotta thank her, though. Zero, too. Adam, Eva… they all fell for that, and here we are. World fucking peace, sure. Like it’s that easy.”_

_“The Boss I met couldn’t even figure out how to cross a bridge.“_

_Donny leans in over his fries, tapping the side of his head like he's got the truth of the universe locked up in there. “Humans are trash, Kaz. Always been, always will be. Basing your system off a personality, hyping up a cult of a single human - the Boss, Big Boss, that was the biggest mistake of the Patriots. AI don’t have personality. That’s why they can make the most objective decisions.” He makes a face. “In the future, at least. Once Ocelot and his precious clones are dead and gone we’ll be done with the legacy of Big Boss for good."_

_“And any future revolution would be suicide."_

_“True. You really showed me the way with these burgers, man.”_

_“One thing you learn trying to build an island nation - start with the basics.” Kaz holds up the Berlin special, dripping sauerkraut and lamb grease. “Everybody eats.”_

 

**2003**

“Since the SR-71 first took flight, most developments in stealth technology have been focused on using metasurfaces to reduce RCS. But a with all tech, there’s tradeoffs. Traveling at subsonic speeds means more fuel and less payload. Want to eliminate your infrared signature? Apologies to my colleagues at BAE Systems, but have fun playing sugar daddy to hangar queens. And I’m sure I don’t need to explain to anyone here: the better you get at evading radar, the better radar gets.

“But that's just aerospace. What about our boys on the ground? Think we got, what, some new camo patterns? I’m sure there’s thrilling breakthroughs in fabric technology - no disrespect intended to the UCP, but let me know how well spending five billion on some pixelated fabric works out for you."

A few titters from the crowd. Kaz stops pacing, puts the mic back on its stand.

“Ladies and gentlemen, it's time to forget everything you know. What I’m about to show you is an entirely new breed of stealth with universal applications. From ground zero to the high skies, the invisible military is finally reality. I give you… HyperStealth.”

Kaz turns on his crutch to the face the M1A1 Abrams taking up half the stage. At his gesture, the lovely blonde assistant beside presses a button on a small device.

The tank vanishes, and the crowd goes wild.

When Kaz slips a hand around his assistant's waist he finds the same device on her hip. Just for that extra wow factor.

To Kaz, of course, both the woman and the tank are still there; albeit covered in a black sheen of a substance that could be processed into oil. With the war in Iraq just kicking off it isn’t the time to go public with OILIX and solve the riddle right off the bat, but Quiet’s still earning her keep.

He keeps his hand firmly on his assistant’s waist as his parasites start to respond. As if the flashing cameras and yapping reporters weren’t enough to deal with. It’s nowhere as bad as it used to be, at least. HyperStealth is a symbiosis of nanomachines and the descendant of a descendant of a genetically engineered colony of a skin scraping taken in 1984. All it’s got of Quiet is her most annoying trait: the ability to turn completely invisible.

Still, it’s a little hard to focus when the noise dies down and the questions start. Yes, it can fall off a radar map just like that. Yes, even night-vision goggles can’t pick it up until it’s too late. Yes, the potential applications are numerous, from hiding agents in the field to hiding an entire fleet of developmental aircraft from enemy satellites.

This isn’t his first rodeo at a big military tech convention; just last week Q-125-D made her initial debut at SOFIC, the domestic spec-ops industry gala, in Miami. But this is AFCEA International - a significantly bigger deal. Reporters from every major news outlet in the world are ready to publish whatever soundbites Kaz might drop, dumbed down and turned into attention-grabbing headlines. Fluff pieces meant to get a world pumped up for war high on science. All hail the military-industrial complex and all that.

In the crowd of suits and cameras, Kaz catches a knowing smile and a raised wineglass.

Cute, but Berlin is a nineteen-hour flight from Moscow. Or wherever in Russia Ocelot claimed to be. Kaz is far too busy to search for him in the crowd anyways, not when everyone from the Pentagon to Israel is asking him questions.

By the end of the day he's bone-tired and sick of talking, skipping the dinner and champagne to head straight to his top-floor executive suite. He’ll go to the closing reception tomorrow, when he doesn't have an entire presentation to recover from.

He drops his crutch by the bed, kicks off his snakeskin shoes and takes off his silk black tie. Letting his glasses hang on their strap, he rubs his stinging eyes. But before he can struggle out of his too-expensive suit and stare at his iPhone wishing it wasn’t too late to call Cathy, there’s a knock at the door.

It isn’t Ocelot. No, Donald Anderson - or _Donny_ , as he insists - crawled out of his computer cathedral and put on his best human suit for once. “Kazuhira Miller,” he grins, holding up two paper bags decorated with golden arches. “Heard celebrations are in order. Got your favorite.”

McDonnell's is the last thing in the world Kaz would call his favorite. It's Donny who thinks eating Kaz's cheap burgers makes him seem more human. Relatable, down to earth, _Kaz’s_ kind of guy.

“What are we celebrating?”

“You, my man! And HyperStealth.” He brushes in like he owns the damn Titanic Gendarmenmarkt itself and starts setting up the table. Of course he got fries and shakes, because when you’re Donald Anderson even calories sway to your rule. Maybe the AIs and the nanomachines are inside the fries, chewing up all the saturated fats.

Unless Donny insists on staying here all night, Kaz can at least set some aside for Ocelot.

“So,” he asks, dipping a fry in ketchup. “What’s next on the schedule?”

“What you do best,” Donny says. “Back to gunrunning.”

“Right.” Getting SOP all over the world means moving a shit-ton of weapons around. In 2001 Kaz thought it’d be impossible; today it’s almost a reality. “Where at?”

“Thailand. We got a local triad boss trying to score some old Chinese QBZ-95s to pass on to the Hmong Secret Army. Could be our ticket in. Want to do him one better?”

“Christ, they're really scraping. How does he feel about the Mk 48? We can rust up something from 2000." Bringing in the latest and greatest tends to draw suspicion, which can be everything when it comes to inserting SOP in those small-time local insurgencies. Pushing aside his burger, Kaz makes way for the dossier. He’s less than two sentences into the briefing when he closes the folder and says, “No can do.”

“What do you mean?”

“This Chaiprasit guy. He’s met me before. In 1981 he was still rankling under his daddy’s rule. I see he’s recovered from losing three tons of heroin, but I doubt he’ll let bygones be bygones.”

“God damn,” Donny says softly. “Three tons?”

“Yep. Still at the bottom of the bay, for all I know.”

“1981… Wait, I remember this. I think XOF snatched it up. Yeah, yeah. That was a good year.” He squints at Kaz. “You think he’ll actually remember you?”

“I’ve been around the block and I’m hard to forget. Isn’t that why you use me for this? Anyways.” Kaz slides the folder back across, avoiding the fries. “I can’t work in June anyways. Once school is out - “

“Right. You’re on vacation.”

“Private cruise of the Bahamas.”

“Knew I shouldn’t’a given you the yacht.”

“Cathy’s landing in Miami on the eighth. Ocelot’s landing the next day, or else riding the same flight if he can work his magic. For the next three weeks, you don’t call me, I don’t call you.”

“Speaking of Ocelot.”

“Yeah. I don't know either. He probably just stopped by to check on his pet project.”

“You talking about yourself or the parasites?”

Ocelot hasn't done much of note lately. There isn't much to talk about. Donny rants and rambles over his fries until Kaz reminds him Ocelot must be waiting for him to leave, and so by half-past midnight Kaz is free to step out for a smoke on the balcony and feel the cold press of lips against his neck.

“Didn’t expect you turn up,” he says, and turns to face his guest.

“Really? My interest in parasites is well-documented.” Ocelot lifts Kaz’s glasses to the top of his head, inspecting. “Are you all right? Any headaches, nausea? Strange memory flashes?”

“I’m fine,” Kaz says, batting his hands away. He quiets the nagging with a kiss, an old technique typically used against himself.

Ocelot sinks into him easily, pressing him against the balcony railing. It’s a chilly night in Berlin, and he wraps his leather duster around Kaz as if Kaz didn’t put on his own jacket before coming outside. It’s clear Ocelot’s planning on more than making out, though, and Kaz internally cringes when hands make his way below his belt.

“I told you, I didn’t expect you to show,” he says when Ocelot finally gives up. “Don’t have my pills.”

“Ah. Not even for your lovely assistant?”

“The blonde barely a third my age?”

“Didn’t stop you from putting your hands all over her. But I’ll be sure to let Donald know he’s picking them too young for you.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s the AIs. Whatever programmed personality they’ve built for me is fucking the same type I went for thirty years ago.”

“Pleased as I am at this monogamous development, I was hoping I wouldn’t have to do all the work tonight.” Ocelot frowns at the glass door behind them. “And that we could take advantage of that king-sized bed.”

“I always sleep on king-sized beds. Memory foam or go home.” He brings his hands around Ocelot’s neck, presses down right where it meets his shoulders. Too much tension. What Ocelot needs is a good massage, not a fuck. “What’s that supposed to mean? Should I kick you out and call an escort for the night? I can get Viagra on room service, you know.”

Ocelot tilts back his head, closes his eyes, and gives in to the pressure. “Mmm… could you?”

“I don’t know,” Kaz admits. “Been on my feet all damn day, and that cane isn’t just for show. Tell you what. Stick around till the end of the convention and we can go to the big closing reception together. I’ll pop a pill right before, and we can drink champagne and fuck in the coat closet like we’re young again.”

Chuckling, Ocelot slips out of Kaz’s hands only to reveal that he’s pickpocketed the cigarettes. “Smoking? At your age?”

“It’s the parasites.”

“Thought you said you felt fine.”

“Fine, yeah. They’re just… antsy.”

Ocelot hmms, taps one out and waits for Kaz to light it. He takes a slow drag, exhales a cloud against the lights of Berlin. The TV tower is only a few miles away, its glimmering ball replacing the moon. “Have we ever been to Germany, Kaz?”

“Together? Don’t think so.”

“We should visit the Tiergarten in the morning. Take a cruise down the rivers. Have you tried a kebab yet?”

“Not while there’s still McDonnell’s around,” Kaz snorts. “That reminds me, there’s half a shake left for you, if you want it. Anyways, we’re not on vacation yet. Give it another two weeks -”

“Til Cathy’s off school,” Ocelot sighs.

Berlin really is a beautiful city. Or so Kaz has heard. All beautiful cities start looking the same after a while. In all his years of globe-trotting, Kaz used to dream of someday being in places like this: the top-floor executive suite of the most exclusive hotels in the world, anything he wanted only a snap of the fingers away. When he touched down at Schonfield there was a limo resplendent with champagne and ice buckets and the aforementioned lovely assistant waiting for him. Unnecessary expenses just to add a few inches to his dick.

It was nice. A vision of what a younger Kaz lusted for, drinking local-brewed liquor in the springy backseat of a janky cab with a cheap hooker on his lap. Then the local paint thinner became half-decent gin, the cheap hooker was Ocelot, and the cab was a Humvee with his own soldier at the wheel. Things changed.

Ocelot chuckles, tossing the lit cigarette off the balcony to gesture at the city. “Someday, Kaz all of this will be gone. May as well enjoy it while it lasts.”

Yes, of course. The empire will collapse, anarchy will rise, and the hotel will go down in flames.

Kaz nudges him and asks, “You wanna sleep here?”

“Room service Viagra?”

“If you want to see the Tiergarten, I want us to be up and out the door by seven. I can promise you a blowjob, but nothing more. Got a long day ahead of us.”

“Good enough for me,” Ocelot says, and leads him inside.

 

 

Kaz got the yacht because he always believed he’d die in the middle of the ocean, and ever since it’s been the go-to summer vacation destination. Last year they went to the Mediterranean, this year it’s the Bahamas.

In June it’s too hot for anything but a half-open Hawaiian shirt and shorts. The Rolex is nearly a brand against his wrist, his skin six shades lighter beneath. Kaz wears the real water-resistant bionics he can actually swim in, but right now the gentle sway of the ocean is about to send him to sleep: flat in a deck chair with a mojito in one hand and a fat black lab within patting distance.

It didn’t take long after the divorce for Kaz to realize he couldn’t keep his daughter’s dog from her just as Nadine realized she couldn’t dare to keep his daughter from him.

“You’re getting gray, too,” Kaz tells Chocolate lazily. She lifts up her head, placid tail stirring. “Gray and fat. Just like me.” He pats his own thickening love handles. Not too fat. Not yet.

Chocolate sniffs his mojito, daring to tongue the rim.

“Should we go check on the others?”

They’re in the galley - which may be the proper nautical term, but on a luxury yacht it resembles any old kitchen in the Hills. Granite countertops, a full bar, and a sink big enough to house the ten pounds of small squid caught off the coast of Ragged Island only this morning. Cathy’s been stoked about it all day.

He thought they’d wait for him to start cooking, but from the wet slaps and chopping sounds, it seems like they could wait no longer. Chocolate trots right on in; Kaz crosses his arms and leans against the doorjamb. They haven't noticed him yet; at least, not Cathy.

“Don’t give Chocolate raw squid,” Cathy says. “She’ll get sick.”

“Did you know cephalopods are the most intelligent of all the invertebrates?” Ocelot asks. “In fact, the Humboldt squid is known to hunt in packs. Like wolves. They communicate by flashing different colors; whether or not they’re using language is up for debate, but -”

“Yeah, that’s just what I wanna think about when I’m trying to eat them. You know what else is smart? Pigs. I’m still gonna eat bacon.”

“A good hunter knows his prey inside and out.”

“I’m not a hunter. You can buy squid at the store.” Cathy picks a squid off the cutting board, wrinkling her nose. "Can we make that squid jerky? I used to love that stuff when I was a kid. Oh! We could dry it out in the sun, like, traditional style.”

“Or,” Ocelot drawls, “ if you want to be traditional, we could save ourselves our time and make _ikuzukuri._ ”

There’s a quick-release function on Kaz’s right hand. For maintenance, storage, or for an old game he used to play with Cathy. He presses it now.

“Iku… is that where you eat it live? Ewww.”

“We can do it Hakodate-style. The squid is dead, but when you pour the soy sauce on top - it dances.”

The phantom had something like this on his red arm. Some sort of rocket punch technique. All Kaz has to do is point.

“Are we ever gonna get to go to Japan?”

“Ask your father.”

Kaz raises his arm, and… “Think fast!”

Cathy squawks. Chocolate barks. Ocelot catches the bionic one-handed without even looking up.

“Cathy, you failed your observation test. Wayne, nice work.” He saunters up, snatches back his hand, and surveys the mess of half-trimmed squid spread across the counter island. “What the hell were you guys talking about? Nobody eats live fish in Japan.”

Ocelot picks up a squid, frowning when the tentacles stick to his glove. Leather gloves to clean raw seafood, naturally. “Are you sure?”

“Fine. Some people do. Rich people, at fancy restaurants. I don’t know. I sure never went around dunking live shrimp in sake.” Perhaps it’s the honorable tradition of  _washoku_ or whatever; when Kaz was a kid he ate more bread than rice. “I was thinking we could make ceviche. Salvadoran style.”

Cathy drops the squid and says, “That's cold, Dad.”

“No, it’s not.” Leaning over the counter, Kaz demonstrates how to pull out a pen without making a mess of the whole squid. These are tiny little things, about three inches long excluding the tentacles. “How’s your mother doing anyways? She dating again?”

“I don't know! I don't ask her about her that kind of crap.”

“Her new partner is a doctor at the VA,” Ocelot says casually. “She went back to work last year.”

“Yeah," Cathy shrugs. "I guess there's a guy or something. There's... been a couple of them.”

"That's nice." Kaz checks the fridge. Lemons, cilantro, limes, check. The staff onboard stopped at the market while they fished this morning. Kaz rarely lets them cook, though. Cathy and Ocelot would get lazy. “I didn't know she was working. How come no one tells me these things?”

“Uh. You don't ask? It's not like she ever asks about your love life.” Cathy moves to grab the citrus and herbs in his hands before remembering to wash her hands first. “What about it, huh? Did you and Wayne get married yet?”

Kaz doesn't like that sarcastic tone of voice. Even Ocelot arches a brow.

What the hell is marriage, anyway? A lesson in monogamy? An exercise in coexistence? Kaz supposes Donny could press some key and have two fake identities joined in holy matrimony forever.

“For your information, we did.” Kaz hands Ocelot the onions, but he’s got to clean his gloves first. “It was a great party. And you weren't invited.”

Cathy groans.

The ceviche is a perfect deckside dinner, even better washed down with more mojitos. In the morning Kaz is vaguely hungover but there's two new islands on the horizon. Uninhabited for decades, Ocelot says. Perfect for them.

There's _hutia_ in the trees _,_  iguanas cresting the rocks. Cathy sits on the beach scribbling in her diary while Kaz drifts in pale-blue lagoon atop an orange inflatable pool lounge. He thinks he knows these islands; once upon a time a lone MSF pilot crashed in a jungle around here. Buried the cargo somewhere in the vines. Two hundred kilos of pure coca, lost. Rumor had it a young Pablo Escobar beat the recovery team while Kaz gnashed his teeth - at least, until Snake radioed him for yet another supply drop - but that was just rumor. It's funny to think about now. Escobar died a decade ago.

Being in the Carribean brings up a lot of old memories.

Kaz squints back at the beach, where Ocelot is trying to interest Cathy in a conch shell and Chocolate is rolling in dead kelp, to the jungle encrusting the horizon, and wonders where Nadine would fit in this scene. Rubbing sunscreen on Ocelot's shoulders, keeping Cathy hydrated, swimming out on her own to find shells in the shallows. Ceviche and mojitos on the deck at sunset.

They never took big vacations as a family. The old camping trips in the desert, sure, and there was always Knotts Berry Farm and the Santa Monica Pier and Griffith Park right up the hill from the house. Nothing special. Nothing like this. 

Kaz dips his bionic in warm still water, admires the gleam of steel. He's not in the business of overthinking ex-lovers, not now that he's finally got his damn yacht.

 

 

 

 

_“Let me ask you,” Donny says over a tall Coke. “If you stick a bunch of monkeys in a room with a typewriter, give ‘em a billion years, you think they’re gonna write Shakespeare?” He doesn't give Kaz time to answer. These questions are rhetorical. Donny might as well talk to himself. “Hell no. You could give them the most advanced computer in the world, and they’d still be flinging shit at each other.”_

_“Even monkeys wage war.” Kaz doesn’t mention that they do this when resources and territory are threatened by human encroachment. “You know bonobos? Closest living relative of man. Just a bunch of kiddiefuckers.”_

_“Ain’t that the truth.”_

_“You want world peace, you gotta give them the Colosseum.”_

_“These days, media is the real opiate of the masses. Religion’s old news - hell, by 2014 the AIs says we won’t even have to worry about those radical Muslims anymore. So tell me, Kaz. What do the people like to see? What gets them cheering in the stadium?”_

_“You already said it. War.“_

_“Exactly.” He shoves two fries at once in his mouth. Donny gets fired up easily. “You know what they call these now? Freedom fries. Fuck the French, this little piece of fried potato is gonna beat the terrorists. Those little monster girls of Adam’s? They’ll be celebrities once they grow up. Bikini babes of war with a tragic backstory to boot.” He laughs. “It’s what the people love, man. You gotta give them a good show.”_

 

**2004**

Sometimes, when Kaz is spreading the light of SOP all over the world, he’ll see a few paler stripes of paint on the side of a truck or a warehouse where a diamond-shaped logo once sat. Sometimes he’ll meet with a general who remembers the man who sold him his first AK when he was twelve. Sometimes he’ll rendezvous with a prisoner the phantom once rescued who knows they owe Kaz Miller their life. And sometimes some ideological asshole might have a bone to pick with the man who dealt arms to both sides of a war that devastated a long-gone homeland and try to stage a kidnapping, but there’s drone strikes for that.

Here in Nigeria he’s safe with only a small entourage of guards, and the factories still bear the D.H. Arms insignia. DICON was one of the first adopters of SOP; they have a long standing relationship.

This is just a side mission; elsewhere in Nigeria, Monsanto is deploying an experimental pesticide to combat what could be a devastating locust plague. A parasite programmed to consume specific insect species, that once released can travel rapidly and eliminate any new populations. Pretty fucking fantastic.

Kaz happened to be in the area. He’s just here to kick tires and inspect some trucks holding the 1995 Bushmaster XM-15 . The AM D200 is a newer version of the classic he’s still got strapped after all these years, but it’s no Desert Hawk. Pretty much everything manufactured before the year 2000 is slotted to be destroyed. These old pieces of crap aren’t worth the cost of retrofitting with SOP.

At least, that’s what Donny says. No appreciation for the classics; it’s always burn the old and build the new with him. Waste of resources.

“Manifest says these are all headed for Maiduguri,” the driver says. “I’m driving to Maiduguri.”

“Where, to the foundry? Didn’t you hear what happened up there? Factory Inspectorate came down and threw a hissy fit. You know, couple railings in the foundry weren’t up to standard, a few blocked exits, and the whole damn place got shut down for a month. Fucking NSCU bureaucrats, am I right? Anyways. We’re taking these all to Port Hancourt.”

It’s the truth. As Nigeria hurtles to the first world more and more money is going towards meeting UN safety standards. Kaz went on a full tour of the foundry and found two major OSH violations, three clear and present dangers, and six potential lawsuits. Only a matter of time before the workers all went on strike.

The driver looks unsure, but he isn’t paid to think. He’s paid to drive a truck. “No one told me nothing about that. We drive to Maiduguri, same as every time.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Kaz tells him, clapping him on the shoulder. “Look, we’re paying you for the same miles. Boss isn’t happy about the change of plans either, but you’re still getting yours, eh? All you gotta do is drive the damn truck.”

The driver shrugs, licks his lips. Takes the updated manifest and hops into the truck, not without a salute. In Port Hancourt, the guns will trade a few more hands. At port, they will be picked up by Sebring, and by the time they reach Canada they’ll be marked as potatoes. At Halifax they will be loaded onto more trucks, and then driven further, across the country well into Yukon territory, where the potatoes will finally be laid to rest behind the locked door of a Quonset hut in an old lumberyard.

There they’ll sit until the world ends.

As the trucks roll off his pocket vibrates. Not his iPhone, thank Christ, but the obsolete and clunky iDroid.

“What are you doing?” Ocelot demands.

“Uh. Stockpiling?”

“How fast can you reach the Indian Ocean?”

“Ocelot -”

“I know it’s a lot to ask. But I need you, and only you.”

“Is it - shit,” Kaz swears. His crutch makes an indent in the dust of the truckyard.

“The situation requires the unique expertise only you possess,” Ocelot says. “Give me an ETA. You’re in Abuja, yes?”

About a hundred and sixty kilometers away, but close enough. “Give me, uh, twenty-two hours.”

Twenty six hours later, give or take a few turns of the Rolex to adjust for timezones, a heavily medicated Kaz vaguely considers a helipad.

Visiting the parasite research base is always something of a nightmare. The omniscient humming makes his hands shake, gives him migraines unless he lives in a cloud of vaporizer fumes. There’s no runway for a private jet, meaning a six hour chopper ride from Seychelles International to the middle of goddamn nowhere. The base was built in ‘98, but it looks a bit too much like an oil platform decommissioned and left to the whims of coral in 1994.

Only the black goop that once haunted his base is now standing up and fully suited. Just manufactured colonies given human form. Nanomachine brains to turn them into perfect security guards. No lovely assistants here. One of them even tries to help him off the chopper, as if Kaz even needs his crutch as much as he did back in the day.

Instead he takes Ocelot’s hand, jumps down, and brushes imaginary dust off his white linen suit.

It’s the girls, of course.

They’re nobodies. Nameless. Scraps of battlefields even UNICEF couldn’t save. For some godforsaken reason, Ocelot took them in, and now there’s a gaggle of twelve-year olds kept in a so-called nursery two floors below deck.

If Kaz had his way, he’d bring the real Chocolate down here. Like one of those therapy dogs they bring to kids with leukemia and shit. The one time he tried, one of them started screaming and howling and sent Chocolate to the veterinarian. Kaz claimed a Doberman attacked, because that was what it looked like.

He doesn’t like this, but he does it for Ocelot.

“Where the hell is Dr. Clark?” Kaz asks on the elevator down. “I thought she was overseeing all of this.”

“She’s, ah, indisposed. You’ll like her assistant, though. Japanese. Older.”

Kaz groans, but follows Ocelot down.

They're no Quiets; like Kaz, these girls were still alive when they got infected. Chuckles reminds him of her, though, shaking on the floor as black patterns flash across her skin like vitiligo.

The one who cries all the time - Crybaby, as Kaz has silently dubbed her, has been chewing on her own fingers again, and Screech is banging her head against wall again. On the plus side, Freakshow is playing some kind of hand-slapping game with the woman who must be Dr. Clark’s assistant in perfect rhythm.

They all freeze and turn towards Kaz as one.

“Yui, could you give us the room?”

Once she’s gone Kaz takes off his glasses and shows them his eyes.

As one they relax. When alerted and experiencing adrenaline, the hivemind activates. Dr. Clark said it was a comfort to them; Kaz doubts the old bird knew what she was talking about. Like Donny, she spent all her time locked up in her labs. People were something she only knew from the movies.

Kaz squats by Crybaby, peering at her chewed fingers. She mumbles, unintelligible as always, and shows him bloody teeth when she smiles.

“She says it was the wolf,” Chuckles translates. “Just the wolf.”

“Hmm. Looks like he got a big bite out of you, huh.” Kaz picks up her hand. Chewed to the bone again. “You know you can heal yourself, right?”

Dropping her hand, Kaz bites his own finger before picking it back up. As his skin opens his own parasites respond to hers. Black blood flows across her fingers, knitting back flesh. It’s a cool trick. Slowly she starts to get it, and the next hand she heals all by herself.

“Bite me,” Chuckles says, thrusting her hand in between their faces. “C’mon, bitch. Bite me!”

“Don't speak to your sister like -” Ocelot starts, but Kaz interrupts. The girls know damn well they aren't sisters.

“Back off, kiddo. She’s done enough biting for today, huh?”

“Fuck you!”

“Fuck you, too. You want to get bitten so bad, do it yourself.”

“I’ll bite you.” Chuckles laughs, showing tiny blunt teeth. “I’ll bite all you bitches.” Before she can lunge, Kaz puts up his bionic. Her teeth land on steel and she howls, rearing back.

That’s when Freakshow stands up. Nothing happens that Kaz can see, but Chuckles freezes, drops her hands from her jaw, and plops flat on her butt.

And _that's_ when Screech starts screaming, just as she does every fucking time Freakshow uses her powers. Ever since Ocelot fed the girls to the parasites it’s been a honest-to-god madhouse in here.

Kaz takes a long drag on his vaporizer, holds it for a moment, then exhales right in front of her face and into her open mouth. The girl coughs violently, staggering, but finally stops screaming.

“Try giving them hemp oil,” he says, straightening. “Pure CBD. Always works for me.”

“Won't that dull their senses?”

“That’s the idea. This parasite shit is too much for their little brains to handle. And with, uh, your psychic freak feeding their memories to each other, they’re constantly overloading. I’d give separation a shot. Not complete isolation, but structured and scheduled socialization.”

“It’s exposure therapy. Besides, they're learning to operate as a single unit.”

“Look. You asked me to help. That’s what I got.”

“Suppression won't work. I need the hivemind strong enough to handle the battlefield. But in training, they just -” Ocelot brings his hands together before yanking them apart, fingers wiggling. “The center won't hold.”

“Shouldn't they learn to handle downtime first?”

“They need a healthy outlet for aggression.”

“Okay. I have another idea,” Kaz says. “Someone - or rather, something, that might be able to… _help_ them better than I can.”

Kaz might share the disease, but he’s never been a warrior himself. There’s only one other person he knows.

The dumb brutes acting as security won't do for this. They need to dig deeper, go back a few decades.

It shouldn't work, but the Q-004 colony even remembers what it once looked like. The woman that materializes in the restoration chamber could've stepped right out of a time machine.

The girls stare at her, fascinated, when her skin glitches. Only for an instant; Q-004 is a vast improvement on the old Quiet. More than a sniper, more than a close-quarters assassin. Proficient in every martial art, from S.C.A.R.S. to systema to South African stickfighting, well enough to break the rules with impossible parasite-conjured limbs.

For the first few days they only watch Q-004 run through demonstrations. Ocelot controls her by iPhone, thumbs darting across the holograph, while Chuckles hoots and oozes and Freakshow hums. Even Crybaby quits chewing on her fingers and pays attention to something for once.

In actual combat the girls try to ape her: flickering from view only to rush from behind, splattering against the wall in attempts to climb to vantage points. From the viewing room in the testing hangar Kaz watches Chuckles drift up, up into the air, and for a moment he thinks she’s genuinely floating before realizing she’s clutching her throat.

Q-004 materializes in eight black tentacles throttling her before dropping her to the floor. Catching her again just to keep bashing her skull in, while Freakshow screams and clutches her own head.

“Shit -” Kaz starts, reaching for the intercom, but Ocelot holds him back.

“Wait.”

Crybaby is already charging her railgun. The shot tears through Q-004, and in an instant she’s dropped Chuckles to turn on Crybaby.

But she stops.

Q-004 doesn’t dodge the next shot either. The girls throw themselves at her as she walks to the far hangar wall and leaps, climbing up, until she’s on a level with the viewing window and turns her head a hundred and eighty degrees. As if she could see through the one-way mirror.

Then she launches.

Jokes on her, the glass is bulletproof. She splatters, drips for a second before reforming to slam against it harder. The room reverberates as she slaps, over and over again, screeching at a frequency beyond the human ear.

Kaz’s skull nearly shatters from the pain, but he manages to grab the intercom and bark out, “Code 14, hangar C.”

Immediately the lights shut down and the red emergency lights come on. Quiet screams, falls. The response team comes in with tasers and suppressing hormones. Kaz props himself up with both hands on the glass, drops his aching head in between his forearms.

Unless he wants to make his calls drunk he’ll have to clear his schedule for the next twelve hours. He’s not going to have a breakdown or anything. He’s just going to get fucking drunk and pass out like the dead.

“That shouldn’t have happened,” he says. “There’s no way in hell - “

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.”

Ocelot doesn’t say anything, but he brings a hand around Kaz’s shoulders. When the hangar is cleared and the girls are gone, he says, “Three more weeks.”

“Till what?”

“Till vacation.”

 

 

 

Kaz bought the house in Alaska when he realized dying in the middle of the ocean was never, actually, part of his plan.

It’s no wilderness cabin; more of a luxurious lodge. Tucked in a pine clearing about thirty miles south of the Arctic Circle, up a long winding road that turns to gravel halfway through. An hours drive down the highway will take him to a hot springs resort, and by bush pilot it’s three hours or so to Twin Lakes. Not that Kaz will be visiting David when Ocelot’s around.

Cathy doesn’t come up until August. She has plans for this summer: visiting waterparks with her friends, playing new videogames in her room, all better things to do than hang out with some old men. Chocolate doesn't come along; Nadine said she was too old for it. This year might be her very last.  Kaz should have figured the girl was getting on age. As for Cathy, seventeen years have finally made her tall. She’s getting back into basketball, but she’s trying out for cheer as well. It’s "totally lame", but the cheer captain keeps hitting on Josh, so she's got to do _something_ about it.

That’s right. Cathy’s also got a boyfriend. She's been mentioning Josh more and more on the phone; Kaz should've seen it coming. But with boyfriends come drama, and it’s all Cathy wants to talk about over dinner. Not to mention the fact that Kiera, of all the people, has turned into a total bitch.

“She's a _dyke_.” Cathy stabs her venison meatloaf. “She’s just jealous because she wants me so bad. I can't even stand her anymore.”

“Aren't her parents getting back together?” Ocelot asks. “Perhaps she just needs a friend right now.”

“You guys used to be best friends.”

“Yeah, until she decided she liked me! I don't wanna deal with her crap. I’m with Josh, I love Josh, and that's it.”

“Ahh, you _love_ him,” Ocelot says with considerable and uncomfortable relish. “What makes you say that?”

“Um, because it’s true?”

“Nobody loves anybody in high school,” Kaz tells her. “It's just practice. What, does he give you a funny feeling in your tummy?” A horrible thought suddenly occurs to him. “Wait, you're on birth control, right? Never trust condoms.”

“DAD!” Cathy shrieks, dropping her voice. “Jesus Christ. We’re not - I don't -”

“Well, how do you know you love him if you haven't even - ah - gone all the way yet? At your age that's the most important part of romance.”

“Not quite,” Ocelot cuts in. “I’d say it's the least important. Puberty does things to the mind.”

“Well, yeah. Hormones and shit.”

“Is that why you left Mom?” Cathy challenges. “The hormones faded?”

“Teen love is nothing like adult love.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Less horny, for one thing.” Unless Kaz takes his Viagra. This is a little awkward with Ocelot at the table, but whatever. “It’s… it's like having a job. Obligations. Responsibilities. Not gonna lie, it’s a bit of a burden.”

“Wow. That sounds like a nightmare.”

“It really isn't. Just more work than being a horny kid.”

Ocelot opens his mouth and Kaz rolls his eyes. Right, take dating advice from the former teenage charm agent. “Love is a weapon,” he says, completely unsurprisingly. “It all depends on which way the gun is pointing.”

“No, because you're both holding it.” Kaz rolls his eyes. “It's not a fucking Mexican standoff.”

“It isn't?” Ocelot leans over the table. “Tell me, Cathy. If you broke up with Josh - right now, called him up and told him it was over, what would happen?”

“Umm. He’d cry?”

“Exactly. You hold that power over him. Wield it wisely.”

“Power to what? _Feel_ things?” Cathy’s really getting the hang of that sarcastic teenager drawl. “Like I wouldn’t feel shitty either? You guys are crazy. Besides, I’m not going to marry Josh. I’m just going to senior prom with him. Are we going to the hot springs tomorrow or what?”

“Sorry,” Ocelot says. “Couldn’t get a reservation in time. But we can go for a hike, if your father can keep up.”

Kaz made a reservation at Chena Hot Springs Resort two months ago. But even when he calls, the staff can’t find any record.

But that’s fine. It’s still tourist season in Alaska; perhaps Ocelot didn’t feel like dealing with crowds. Yet even on a morning’s hike through a silent alpine wood Ocelot seems unnaturally subdued. He doesn’t want to play nature educator, leaving Kaz to tell Cathy about trees and ferns and the mating habits of moose. If Cathy notices something wrong she doesn’t say it. She’s too busy waving her iPhone and complaining about bars.

It could just be that Ocelot misses Chocolate, but Kaz knows better than to underestimate like that.

Two nights before Cathy flies back to L.A. Kaz decides to confront him. He waits until Cathy’s finally asleep, blackout curtains drawn tight against the midnight sun, and mixes two gin and tonics for conversational lubrication. He drinks one in the kitchen before refilling it and finding Ocelot in the living room, sitting on the hearth of the unlit flagstone fireplace staring at nothing.

Kaz hands him his drink and sits at his side. “I need to talk to you about something,” he starts.

Ocelot puts down his drink and regards Kaz with patient eyes. “Go ahead.”

Not just his recent behavior. There’s a starting point to all this that's been weighing on Kaz's mind. “The girls.”

“Ah.”

“Seems to me what you’re doing to them is exactly what the Philosophers did to you. From what you told me, at least.” When Ocelot doesn’t immediately reply, he continues, emboldened. “I thought this was about breaking the cycle. About ending it all. What’s supposed to happen to them, when it’s all over?”

“What I’m doing isn’t even close to -”

“Oh, you want a standing ovation for not molesting them? Guess you’re right; they’d never make it as charm agents.”

“I’m rebuilding them,” Ocelot snaps. “Giving them the power to defeat their demons. Giving them a clear direction in life.”

“Power? Is that what you think they need?”

“What else is there?”

Kaz pinches the bridge of his nose. “They’re little girls, not monsters. You don’t know what they need.”

“Don’t compare them to Cathy. My girls come from a world she could never understand.”

The tonic water is too sweet. “Right. We could never understand that precious trauma. Shapes a person, doesn’t it? Makes them a little something less than human? Tell me, if that’s true, why did you think I could do anything for them? You told me yourself: you needed my _expertise_.”

“Cathy’s grades haven’t been so good,” Ocelot says. “No chance of getting into a prestige school, and she hasn’t a clue what she wants to do with her future. At best, she’ll get into state, and -”

“We’re not talking about Cathy.”

Ocelot narrows his eyes to slits, clearly stung. “Well, if we’re dispensing parenting advice -”

“This has nothing to do with her and everything to do with -” Kaz catches himself. Ocelot isn’t dumb. There’s something else here, much deeper, something that’s been on the tip of his tongue for years now.

If they’re having this conversation, then so be it. Who knows what particular flavor of Ocelot he’s got, they’re all blending these days, but now Kaz knows where to begin.

“Let’s just dial it back a minute. Tell me why I’m here. Why you’re still here.”

“Don’t change the subject.”

“I’m not changing the subject. I’m asking you to think. We’re worlds apart, you and I. Yes?”

Ocelot sighs, like he’s just allowing this. “Yes.”

“So… what are we doing here? You’re as practical as I am, at the very least, so there must be some reason, some thing you somehow find useful that keeps bringing you back. Is it vacation? There’s plenty of more fun you could have elsewhere. Is it our pure and simple humanity? Last time I checked, I’m the one that bleeds black, and I know damn well what I’ve been responsible for.”

“I don’t know who the hell you think you are, but -”

“Don’t bullshit me,” Kaz grits. “Don’t bullshit yourself. I know what those girls really need and deep down, you know I’m right. Every human needs love.”

“Some would say -”

“Fine. Everyone but Donald Anderson.” That might be a joke. Quiets the fire in Ocelot’s eyes, at least.

“Just get to the point, Kaz,” he says quietly.

“I don’t know. There is no point. Believe whatever you want.”

“Kaz.” There’s something… desperate in it this time. Something strained.

Does Ocelot not know? Has Kaz never told him?

Then again, when would it have come up? Was it ever worth bringing up? Thirty years they’ve known each other; it’s an immutable fact of life at this point. Roses are red, the sky is blue. Kaz has often felt stupid next to Ocelot, but this takes the fucking cake.

“What did you think, I was just sticking around for a quick lay? Of course I love you. Big deal. People - normal people - fall in love all the time. It happens.”

Ocelot narrows his eyes. “And?”

“And... what?”

“What does that mean?”

“I don’t know, computer. What is love?”

“What does that mean to _you._ So you say you love me; explain. I’m very curious what sort of romantic notions you may have developed over the years."

Right. Kaz expected nothing less. He leans back against the flagstone. Through the blinds, he can tell the skies are finally starting to turn red. Sunset at midnight.

He’ll think about it, sure. He’ll think about the cold nausea that seizes him when Ocelot dissociates. The first time Ocelot held Cathy, awkwardly dangling her like a piece of dirty laundry - and how quickly he got the hang of bottle feeding. The words Ocelot whispered when the infected Diamond Dogs burned. The way he used to - and still does - hold out an empty hand only to find the exact object he needed without a word exchanged, from briefing files to cooking spoons.

Kaz wipes his eyes. “Remember our first time in Bangkok together?”

“A bit. There was a storm.”

“And do you remember the hospital? Ho Chi Minh City?”

“Somewhat.”

“I was stupid. All you had was a concussion, a few broken ribs. But I was sure, I was certain, that if I left you’d die. I knew if I fell asleep, it would have all been a dream, and I’d wake up and you’d be at the bottom of the bay along with the heroin.

“I didn't have time to sit around the hospital with you. Had some pretty major losses to recoup.” Kaz doesn't even know the street price of heroin today. Adjusting for inflation, it was a helluva lot of money. “But somehow I couldn't think about doing it without you. There were so many questions I wanted to ask you, and if you’d stayed in the hospital, I think I would have.”

“And if I told you the truth?”

“I would’ve held your hand and said, okay. And all that _bullshit_ would’ve never needed to happen.”

Ocelot stares at him miserably and says, “I know. That’s why I left.”

“Yeah. And that's why you had to -”

“It wasn’t seeing you broken, Kaz Not for me.”

Kaz feels sore all over, sick to his gut. Bringing it up is embarassing at this point. By all rights he should be over it. But Ocelot has to notice that Kaz doesn't like taking off his bionics even to sleep around him. That he does it in the dark, and puts them on at morning light. Sure, there was some noise about how Snake was partly to blame, but Kaz isn't stupid. He knows.

Kaz also knows, on the rare nights when he allows himself to get drunk and ruminate, that loving Ocelot has made him a colder man. Maybe he was cutthroat and dirty once, but he doesn't know if he was ever so cruel. Whether the torture manifested it in him or if it was somewhere inside all along is up for debate.

It's still not a conversation he ever wants to have; as for Ocelot, he seems done talking. Kaz follows a few steps behind as he heads to the front door. Pulls on his coat, his boots, and clasps Kaz’s shoulder looking like he’s got a frog caught in his throat.

“You don’t have to -”

He’s already gone. With a sigh Kaz catches the door before it closes. Outside the long sun is finally setting behind the pines and Ocelot's classic XJ9 is already running. He rolls down the window obediently at a knock.

“You don't have to leave,” Kaz finishes. “I just wanted to talk.”

Ocelot slides a hand over the steering wheel. Drums his fingers. Ponders. After a long minute he sighs and says, “just get in the car.”

“What?”

“Your house is wired. Get in the car.”

“Oh for the love of -”

Kaz gets in the car. Ocelot courteously turns up the heat, fiddles with the vents. “This trip was convenient for me,” he starts. "I’ve been in Alaska for the past year now. In the Aleutian Islands. With the proximity to Russia, I’m getting more sleep than I’ve had in years.” He offers Kaz a cautious, hopeful smile.

“That’s… good,” Kaz says. “I know you’ve had some, ah. Missing time. Unaccounted hours. Donny keeps pestering me about it.”

“Oh, I guarantee you he’s aware of this. But what about you?”

“What are you talking about?”

“How much do you know about Shadow Moses Island?”

Shadow Moses? Kaz runs through a mental catalogue of all the shit he’s learned about in the past few years. “In 1989 Diamond Dogs built a nuclear ‘disposal’ facility,” Kaz says, fingerquoting. “Cheaper than building another offshore rig, I guess. Today, it’s - well, I’m gonna make a leap of logic and say it isn’t completely shut down yet.”

“Do you know what they’re building there?”

If it isn’t parasites… “You gotta be kidding me.”

“Metal Gear REX. Not as stylish as Sahelanthropus, I’m afraid. But, yes. And you’ll never guess who’s got their eye on it.” Ocelot leans across the armrest, lowers his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Once Metal Gear is complete, Liquid Snake will seize it and stage an insurrection against the Patriots. You’ll notify Donald Anderson of your suspicions sometime this winter. They’re still discussing the START II treaty, but I predict that if not by December -”

“Back up for a second. Who the hell is Liquid Snake?”

Ocelot tilts his head. “Liquid Snake? The other clone. He’s not alone, either. Everyone under his command is one of the genome soldiers. See, Anderson will find this a convenient way to get rid of the legacy of Big Boss for good, but meanwhile - ”

“ _Which_ other clone? It’s not David, and I know you don’t mean the one in the White House.”

“Did you forget about Eli?”

“Eli’s dead. We torched that whole island, Ocelot. He had the vocal cord parasite.”

“Ah.” Ocelot folds his lips together and nods, slowly. “Well. It appears... he survived.”

“Really.”

“Let’s just say the parasites weren’t the only research project I was tasked with securing. There was - I suppose you were never aware of the other child on base.”

Another child? The way Ocelot tells it, there was some bizarre Soviet research project right under his goddamn nose all the way back in ‘84.

It’s nothing, really. Just another secret, kept long after Kaz believed all the secrets were over between them. No use getting angry about it, no point asking Ocelot why. Besides, Eli was just a pain in the ass to Kaz.

“I need you to understand,” Ocelot says plainly, grabbing his arm. “After this, things are going to change. Drastically. I may need to… disappear, for a moment.”

“I’ll be ready.”

“Be careful, Kaz.” Ocelot looks pointedly at the passenger door. “This trip hasn't gone well. I’ve been strange, distant. That’s what you’ll tell Anderson.”

“Nothing but the truth. Yeah.”

“You should check in on David. This won’t be easy on him.”

“Just don’t let him die in there.”

“Kaz, I -” Ocelot starts, but the slam of the passenger door cuts him off.

He’ll just tell Cathy Wayne had to go back to work. Nothing but the truth, indeed.

Morning comes late. Cathy’s cereal is soggy at the kitchen table. She’s scribbling in her diary, but when Kaz tries to peek over her shoulder she slams it shut.

“Is that the same one I got you when you were a kid? They’re only supposed to last a year.”

“Guess I didn’t have a lot to write about,” she mutters. “Where’d Wayne go?”

Kaz busies himself with the coffee machine. “Had to work.”

“Work,” she repeats. “Right.” She doesn’t sound like she believes it. She almost sounds like she’s been listening to whatever crap her grandmother tells her. Kaz eyes the diary, but snatching it would start a fight.

“Well,” Kaz says, pouring a mug, “I had an idea for how we can spend the last few days of your vacation.”

For all that Cathy loves Josh so much, she always did used to blush around David.

The last time Kaz checked in on David he was scruffy as his father and reeked of liquor. This year, though, the cabin in Twin Lakes is neat and tidy, and the kennels are clean. David’s been training for the Iditarod, he says. He’s real excited about it. Says he was feeling like he had no future for a while, like if he made a move he’d turn into the man he’d killed twice already. Like his life was trapped in repeating cycles, over and over again.

Now he’s grinning, covered in dog hair, and talking about the challenge ahead of him. But he’s got faith: in Marta and Mila and Yuka and Tonya and the rest of dogs named for Olympic ice skaters. No matter what happens, they’ll pull through together.

 

 

**2005**

In late February, Kaz crouches in the woods at the edge of the gravel driveway and peers at his front door through binoculars.

Ocelot couldn’t be bothered to come himself; it’s a nervous-looking young man in a trenchcoat. Nervous-looking being a relative term, he’s clearly trying too hard to project confidence. Eli mutters and paces, presses a hand to his ear as if he's got a codec, and glares through the windows.

The thing inside his house has been growing for a while. A scraping of his eyes, grown and manifested into an empty image. The eye color isn’t right, but it matches whatever’s on Kaz’s drivers license. It struggles when Eli throws in the gas canisters, but doesn't make it to the door.

He gives it a solid week before he sends a text to Ocelot’s iDroid. The call comes immediately. He claims he would have come himself if he intended for Kaz to die, but he does want to meet. As soon as possible. If Kaz is somewhere safe.

There’s plenty of safe places: hunting cabins throughout Alaska and the Yukon territories, ghost towns, abandoned lumber yards housing Quonset huts full of guns. Ever since Donald Anderson didn’t return from the Shadow Moses investigation, Kaz has had a feeling.

 _As soon as possible_ means a month. Ocelot finds him in a fishing cabin off the Stewart river. The endless night of winter is finally giving way to spring, but snow still crusts the tundra where wildflowers might bloom, Ocelot is still wearing his cowboy boots. He moves slow, staggering, but he insists his feet are fine.

Kaz takes off his boots anyways. Two pairs of wool socks can't be enough, even if Ocelot is a fake Russian.

"Keep those," Ocelot says.

Kaz blinks. "You want me to keep your boots?"

"I'll come back for them. Someday."

"I don't want them."

"I have other shoes -"

"What the hell is wrong with you?"

Something is very, very wrong. When Kaz looks closer he sees grey lips still cold in the firelight. Eyes and cowboy accent faded. He's holding himself strangely, and when Kaz reaches for a hand Ocelot twitches away. There's no obvious injury, nothing Kaz can see, but he plays it slow and seductive, trying to ease him into bed. Ocelot not wanting to fuck is a clear sign, he's too proud of the body he's somehow kept chiseled to _not_ take off his clothes.

Finally Ocelot huffs and says, "I suppose you'll find out someday"

It starts stinking before he even gets his shirt off. The stitches where the withered arm meets his shoulder are tidy, professional, but something is _oozing_ from the seam. And the arm itself, when Kaz can bring himself to look at it, is pallid and sickly, veined with parasites and nano-machines and who knows what so that Ocelot can barely, awkwardly, move his fingers. 

"Sweet fucking Christ." 

"Now we match." He actually _winks._

"That's not funny. Where the hell did you - is that -"

"Liquid Snake's, of course."

Kaz swallows hard around the building nausea. "Well, that's... one way to preserve the genome, I guess.”

“...Huh?”

“You know. So you can access the SOP system. You got Big Boss’s DNA after all. Poor kid never even knew, huh? I appreciate you not chopping David to bits, but -”

“Ah. No. No, this isn’t Big Boss’s DNA. I’ll have to -”

“Isn’t he a clone?”

“Not quite. Eli only carried the dominant genes of Big Boss. David’s got the recessive. Neither of them have the exact genome of Big Boss. That would be ridiculous.”

Kaz blinks. “Say that again?”

“They’re split.”

“Then… wait. Wait a second. If they aren’t actually clones, what was the point of _Les Enfants Terribles_? Those so-called soldier genes - are those dominant, or recessive, or what? Did you just -”

“We split the helix in half,” Ocelot continues. “Each half of the molecule was assigned to a different embryo. And so-”

 _“Excuse me?_ ”

“The other half was rebuilt by nanomachi-”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

Ocelot opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

“That’s not how - look, I’m no scientist, but I can guarantee you that’s not how cloning works. Or DNA, or anything. At all.”

Ocelot twitches, starts blinking like he's napping out of something. He uses the wrong hand to balance himself on a hot stove that only sears the dead skin. Kaz doesn't bother speaking Japanese; Ocelot dug this hole for himself. Like all of his bug-out cabins, there's plenty of food, tea, and coffee that could help, but he'd just love to see what Ocelot comes up with on his own this time.

What Ocelot actually does is survey the charred borrowed hand as if it'[s a map before closing his eyes. After a long moment a faded, tired voice speaks. “In 1972 you had a continued affair with an MSF soldier by name of Piranha. Do you remember?”

“Piranha…?” Yeah, he thinks he remembers. A demolitions expert with short blonde hair and a tight rack. They had plenty of fun, until -

Ocelot smiles, pityingly. “In those days the MSF’s medical facilities weren’t what they were.”

Oh. “Snake would’ve killed me if he knew.”

“So you called Zero.”

“She had the abortion. She - she came back within a week.”

“The abortion was performed, all right. The question is, what happened to the embryo.”

No.

“So you see, we had the perfect setup for our experiments,” Ocelot continues, as calm as if he's discussing the weather. “One would be the gene without the meme - that’s David. The third, Solidus, was a clone raised with the knowledge that he was a clone. And the second, while he believed he carried Big Boss’s DNA…”

“...was completely unrelated.” Kaz sits down. Hard. Hears a strangled moan that can only come from him.

“An unwanted child you never needed to know about.”

“That's my dead kid. You’re wearing my dead kid’s arm.”

“When you saw him as a child, did you ever wonder? He looked an awful lot like you.”

“Of course I didn’t! Why would I give a damn about - Jesus Christ, that’s Cathy’s _brother._ ” Hysteria overwhelms him, chokes him. A shrill laugh ends in a cough. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

“Get ahold of yourself." It's not quite a snap, and Kaz dimly appreciates that, but the withered grey skin is making him ill. "Eli meant nothing to you while he was alive.”

“But why the hell did you...”

"I told you. I needed to disappear. Why not into someone else? You've heard of my father. It's not that big a logical leap. With this, I'll be able to convince the Patriots that the Ocelot they knew, the one no one could predict, has been subsumed into someone they _can_ predict. And so-"

Sure, sure, it all makes _perfect_ sense. Kaz is the crazy one here. "Just tell me you're not gonna hypnotize yourself for this."

The silence is actually confounded, as if Ocelot can't believe Kaz would say something so stupid, because _Kaz is the crazy one here_. 

"C'mon, you can't pretend? You can't fake it? What happened to all your training?"

"Kaz, stop this."

"When you were nineteen you played the world's most powerful spy agencies against each other. You can do whatever you want. Anything but this...  you have to admit this is insanity. Don't try to tell me that we both know this won't end well for you."

A hand reaches for Kaz; Kaz flinches away. The cabin is too small, suddenly, and he bursts through the door before even putting on a parka. It is cold and dark and the Northern Lights would be stubbornly beautiful if Kaz cared to look up. He walks down the steps of the porch and sits down in the snow and just sits there, in that eerie glow.

Bare feet pad on the porch behind him. Ocelot didn't even put his socks on. At least he doesn't call out; only stands there with the door open, letting all the heat escape.

"Go put your fucking shoes on before you freeze your toes off," Kaz snaps.

Ocelot does. Kaz waits until he hears spurs, until the shock dies down and he knows: he didn’t feel a goddamn thing for the kid. And he knows, too, that Ocelot is going to do whatever he wants. No matter the cost. 

If Ocelot tries to say _anything_ -

"Kaz."

No.

“I just faked my own death. I just lost Cathy. For you. For _this._ " His voice cracks. "You've never been a father. You couldn't possibly understand."

 

 

**2007**

In late 2007, somewhere near Dawson City in the Yukon territories, Kaz receives a photo on his iDroid of a white-blonde infant cradled inside a machine.

_I’m learning._

He studies the photo for a minute. Notes the electrodes tapes to her skull.Whoever the mother was, she must have had white-blonde hair too. 

But has Ocelot ever held her?

The shelter volunteer is waiting patiently. He slips his iDroid back in his pocket and considers the Husky in the kennel. The sign on the gate says his name is Toto. Never made it as a sled dog, too bad with other dogs. Good with children and the elderly, though; the breeder gave him to her grandmother. Loves to catch his toy and snuggle. Eventually surrendered upon his owner’s passing.

“You said his previous owner had dementia?”

“Towards the end." Toto licks her hand. "No service dog, don't get me wrong, just... trained to look out for Grandma.”

“Good enough for me,” Kaz says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. kaz is elis father because they both have the magical dominant blonde hair gene. and so a shitpost becomes a plot point.
> 
> 2\. credit where it's due: heavvymetalqueen is responsible for sunny is ocelot's daughter theories. i was a little ? at first and then ended up weeping in their dms because: fucking, yes, i owe them my life. [please read](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14698401) their [ocelot/olga](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11528829)
> 
> 3\. at the beginning of this year when i replayed mgs4 in a haze i saw laughing octopus vomit black sludge and decided immediately what i was gonna do with that. one of the worst bits of mgs4 you bet your bottom dollar i'm keeping. comments are, as always, appreciated i know this is.... a lot.


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